


The First Breaking Point

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [26]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Crying, Flashbacks, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Origin Story, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: There are cameras, because there always have been, but seeing it in person is far more arresting, watching Steve prepare to deliberately talk about it is different.“Eleven years ago,” Steve says, and James remembers it - James was eight years old, “in the winter of 2015, I had what the media now commonly refers to as a breakdown.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a-isoiso for some amazingly on-point Sam dialogue in this instalment! 
> 
> Also thanks TwistedRomance for your knowledge of Brazilian Portuguese, and Raindemon for your continuing knowledge of Russian! A mention for InsaneOrange for contacting me about Punjabi exclamations.
> 
> If you're reading this on mobile, or if you're not reading this with my work skin on, I apologise for the formatting! It's gonna get weird for you guys.

Taking separate cars on the fifteenth is, unfortunately, a necessity. To begin with, Steve will be leaving once it gets to about midday to consult with the staff on-site to make sure that he’s wired up correctly, that the spotlights aren’t too bright, that he can make his way up onstage without tripping, or otherwise embarrassing himself.

But, before he even gets dressed to leave for work, James is busy worrying about whether he’ll get his tie to sit straight, about whether his hair will be all right, about whether he should wear makeup.

Steve tells him he’ll look great regardless of what he chooses, but that’s not exactly helpful although it is extremely sweet, so Steve pulls him over mid freakout, sits him down.

“Listen,” he says. “I wanted to give you something.”

James feels his eyebrows go up - really? It’s like not even a month until Christmas.

“Here,” Steve says, and he starts handing little bags and boxes to James, gets all up in his personal space.

James unwraps the little gifts one by one and finds that Steve has bought him a tie that matches the suit, and a light, light lavender shirt with a pocket square in the same color. Also cufflinks. Black heeled boots - just a kitten heel, but beautiful.

And a silver pocket watch, _fuck_.

“Steve,” James tells him when Steve gives it to him. “I can’t take all this…”

“Sure you can,” Steve answers. “You better, anyhow, I asked them to engrave it.”

“It’s,” James says, looking down at it, shaking his head. “Why?” He opens the back.

It says, _For James. With all my love, Steve._

And it’s so simple, so completely free of affectation. It’s not a clock joke, doesn’t shy away from using their names. The mechanism is beautiful and James realizes, with a shock of overwhelming emotion, that this watch must be wound to work. Which means, it will always work as long as he takes care of it.

“Few reasons,” Steve says. “Firstly, when you show up, people are going to be looking at you. And in a year, or two, or five, or ten, when you want to make our relationship public, I want people to look back at photographs of us together and say ‘oh yeah, I was blind about it but it was right there in front of me’ the way I did for that first month when I didn’t see you again. And if you never decide you want to go public, then _I’ll_ get to look back and look at us together. ”

James laughs a little wetly at the gift that will last for the rest of his life as long as he’s careful. Is he talking about the watch?

“You’re staking a claim on me?” he says to Steve.

Steve tilts his head, his gaze shifts a little. 

“Hmm, more like…” he says, and lifts James’ hand, rubs his fingers over the ring made from a silver quarter that James keeps on his little finger. Wow, okay. “And PAs don’t usually get tailored suits - if we ever come out with this, people are gonna go crazy about how they didn’t spot it sooner.” Steve inches closer, wraps one arm around James. “All those missed opportunities for photographs. All those people who could’ve had something signed. I want ‘em to be sick with jealousy about it, so sore they bitch for months. They coulda had you but I got you first.”

James’ face feels like it’s on fire. 

“Other reason is, because I can. I want to give you everything. I can’t give you everything. I want to give you all I can, but you don’t like that, and I respect that. But I’m going to treat you occasionally, and this happens to have a practical purpose.”

“Oh?” James says, and Steve squints at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Now you’ve got a nice suit and a watch you can wear with it. And I bet you’d look incredible in the emerald-cobalt silk. They do a turquoise-gold too-”

“Steve!” James laughs. “No!”

“Aw, maybe just a tie? Pocket square? I could order you a vest - there’s a gorgeous red that shifts into a-”

“What for, six birthdays in the future?”

Steve pauses, looks at him.

“Six,” he says, “ten, twenty, fifty…”

James’ mouth is hanging open. Steve’s fingers are still resting against the quarter dollar ring.

The suit definitely works well. James knows it does because, when he tried it on last Saturday, the first thing Steve did was stare at him. Then he told James that he’d better take it back off before it got torn, then he showed him why.

But this?

“I don’t know what to say,” he says, and Steve just smiles, shakes his head.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

James kisses him, and hopes that conveys even a fraction of what he’s feeling, because there is no way to put it into words.

~

James travels to the venue by himself and tries not to feel strange about it. It’s a little weird, because it’s a Tuesday and James was working all day, and now he’ll be spending the evening apart from Steve as well.

He has to act like a PA if he possibly can, and he doesn’t doubt that this is kind of an audition. He’s just not sure if it’s for him or the general public.

When the car arrives at the Marriott Marquis, James steps out of the car and onto the carpet. The Paparazzi raise their cameras but aren’t interested when they realize it’s just some random kid they don’t recognize, although one or two snap a bright flash of light in his direction just in case (James tries his best to appreciate the anonymity, because he’s decided it won’t always be the case) and so he heads on in without stopping.

The Broadway room is, unsurprisingly, huge. There’s a _lot_ of floorspace, a stage, two screens and…well, actually, the stage backdrop is probably a third screen so there’s that. 

Steve is, in a navy pinstripe three-piece with a burgundy tie, busy over the other side of the room, talking to the lady James knows from the news stories and the internet - Marcia Hernandez, a Latina businesswoman who used to run with ‘Moms4Safety’ eleven years ago. She’s got her arm linked through Steve’s, and she looks great in a gold, glittery dress. Sam’s also with them, in a tux, why are all of Steve’s friends so painfully attractive? Steve has a fresh drink in one hand.

“Aha!” Steve says as James approaches, notebook in hand. “This is the PA I was telling you about.”

“The PA,” Marcia Hernandez echoes, and she looks James up and down.

“Ma’am,” he says, and he holds his hand out for a handshake.

She takes it, shakes it, and lets go, and Steve hands James the drink.

“Non alcoholic,” he says, so much for James not eating or drinking in the suit, “although it’s an open bar if you want something else.”

“Ohh, ‘Ma’am’,” Marcia Hernandez says.“You’re a good match! Either that or Steve’s rubbing off on you.”

Steve chooses those moments - when James is sipping the probably very expensive beverage from the probably very expensive glass, and Marcia is speaking - to lean out from behind her so he can see James and James can see him., Steve holds eye contact and raises one eyebrow. James can _hear_ his voice in his head say, _rubbin’ off, huh?_ and he very nearly snorts the probably very expensive beverage out of his nose.

He does inhale a little and have to wait a few very tense seconds to cough so that it’s not obvious (boy do his lungs protest those few seconds) and Steve’s wry, knowing grin when James has to clear his throat a little forcefully is lucky its so cute.

“Well someone has to make sure I follow my orders,” Steve says, glancing in James’ direction, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Y’all think we don’t know what y’all’re doin’ but you ain’t subtle.”

“Who said I think you don’t know what I’m doin’?” Steve answers.

“Are you being PA tonight?” Marcia says. “Or are you being _PA_ tonight?”

James looks at her a little wide-eyed, then at Steve. Steve’s expression is open and calm, content. He nods slowly once. 

“Uh, PA tonight,” and then, hoping he’s read the situation right, “ _PA_ later.”

Startled into a bark of laughter, she covers her mouth a moment later. 

“Well it’s nice he has somebody to keep him in line,” she says.

“Ohh, line after line, huh?” Steve says, coming around back of her to settle his hand briefly at James’ waist as he passes. 

James thinks of the ropes because he’s twenty-one, horny, and Steve gets a certain look in his eye when he means ‘sex.’ 

So he says, “Are we talking about our evenings or your conversational skills?” in retaliation.

Sam winces.

“Call the burns unit,” he says, but Steve just looks straight at him, eyes gone distant, expression soft.

“Did it hurt?” Steve says softly, leaning close. “When you fell outta the wiseass tree and hit every branch on the-”

James slaps him in the arm, cracks up.

“A’right,” Steve says, squeezing him a moment before he lets go. “I’m going to have to start schmoozin’ in a second so here,” he leans down, a quick kiss against James’ cheek, “take that notebook and scram, babe.”

“Yes, Sir, Commander,” James says, and he goes to go meet some other people. 

~

To everyone who starts a conversation, he introduces himself as Jim, Commander Rogers’ PA.

To everyone who didn’t know the Commander had a PA, James tells them the Commander didn’t know he was getting one, either!

To everyone who asks what the Commander would need a PA for, James asks, what _wouldn’t_ he need one for? The fan-mail is reason enough! 

And so James is as flattering as he possibly can be without giving the game away. I screen his calls when he’s training, I answer his emails when he’s on duty, I make sure his colleagues are appraised of his situation when he’s chatting with kids in the children’s hospital.

Things get pretty dicey at one point when someone asks for his card but, for a moment, his mind races, and then he says, 

“I’m sorry, I’m here to assist the Commander in a strictly personal manner - all requests and inquiries should still be addressed to him via existing channels,” just like he said he would. 

It’s not as difficult as he thought it might be, and he writes names down in the notebook from time to time to look busy, scribbles little bits and pieces down because he doesn’t actually need to have his mind on the job. 

The commotion outside begins at maybe seven-thirty, as people who are well-known begin to arrive. Steve talks to some of them, Marcia and Sam talk to others, and James recognizes a couple of Avengers so he goes to say hi and emphasize that he’s the PA. There are placements at the tables, serving staff wandering around with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, but a few people will speak this evening, and Steve is one of them.

Thankfully (so thankfully) James manages to locate Wanda, who looks stunning in burgundy, and they stand together near the back of the hall. James has written some descriptions of Steve’s suit, and some other nonsensical things down, but it’s perhaps eight o’clock when he clocks a change while he's watching the main doors - Steve’s on the move. 

He goes from smiling and talking on the floor, over to the stage. He jogs up the little flight of steps, onto the stage, and James holds his champagne and waits as everybody falls silent. Steve’s presence is like that - the lights have not dimmed, no new music plays, because he’ll speak to everyone in this room as equals. All he does is stand and wait, smiling beatifically.

The room, of course, quiets little by little, a slow beginning that gains traction until the glasses stop clinking and the voices stop talking and the musicians reach a good place to pause. The screens on either side of the stage slowly turn on, and they show the reaching hands of the Helping Hands First Conglomerate’s logo.

“Good evening,” Steve says, softly and slowly - he has a mic clipped to his lapel, and he greets the ballroom as though it’s a pleasure to do so, as though he’s happy to see each of the many faces now turned towards him. “I'd like to thank you for coming, it means a lot to me that you've all come tonight.” He looks around the faces, smiles a little more. “We’re ten years old today!” and there is scattered applause that builds as James listens, that strengthens into something that makes the hairs stand on the back of his neck. Steve beams and waits for the noise to calm. “Some of you've never been here before, some of you are familiar faces, and it's good to see you. It really is. A lot of you have heard me give this kinda spiel before, and to those people, I'd like to say thank you in advance for your patience.”

There’s a small smattering of laughter that flows and then ebbs, and Steve’s smile is still gentle, still understanding.

“I am a dramatic man,” he says, “to which anyone who knows me can attest,” and, indeed, there are one or two raised glasses, one or two murmurs of ‘hear, hear’ or variations thereof, “and so,” Steve says, smiling broadly enough to indicate that he’s heard, “I keep tonight clear on purpose.”

He sweeps his hand out towards the back of the room. 

“My very good friend, and colleague, Tony Stark,” he says, at which point all heads turn towards Tony, (”Boo, get off the stage,” says Tony,) “suggested to me the use of this beautiful venue so that I can remind you where the money you donate goes. Let me reassure you, it doesn’t go to the venue.”

There’s a similar murmur of amusement.

“Doesn’t go to me either!” Tony says, and Steve laughs, a gentle rumble of a thing - James doesn’t know if everybody else does that time because he’s too busy listening to Steve.

But Steve sobers, James sees it. There are cameras, because there always have been, but seeing it in person is far more arresting, watching Steve prepare to deliberately talk about it is different.

“Eleven years ago,” Steve says, and James remembers it - James was ten years old, “in the winter of 2015, I had what the media now commonly refers to as a breakdown.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Washington D.C., December 14th, 2015_

The thing was, the real thing was, it wasn’t a cold day. It wasn’t prematurely dark, or raining really heavily. It wasn’t a day after a public holiday or too close to traditionally familial gatherings, wasn’t a birthday. The breakup was behind him. It was just another day in a long line of other days, just one more in a long string of so, so, many, days, he just wanted it to stop. Just wanted it to stop, just stop, just for a little while. It never felt like he was trying to get out - he never even considered that. 

He just wanted it to stop.

He wasn’t very high-functioning off-duty. Wake up, exercise, shower, eat. Stare at the television, stare at a book, stare at a wall, stare at a window.

The apartment here was better for him than the conversion in New York where it was hard not to see the gaps on the walls everywhere he looked, the empty drawers and the darker patches on the walls, the little room they’d emptied. 

And better here than in New York, where he was potentially hours away if Peggy…

He went to the store because the milk had turned and the bread was moldy, and he took his bike because it was nice out and he wanted to breathe, too nice for being cooped up in a car or a train, too nice to wear a hat or a helmet.

He thought about the helmet. And then he decided against it, for a few reasons.

The first was that he wore a helmet on duty. This was off-duty. He remembered a helmet on duty, off-duty he didn’t have a helmet. 

Second, helmets now covered your whole head - how was he supposed to hear, to breathe? 

And, third, when he’d tried to wear a helmet, he had this feeling of…discomfort, as though the helmet were too tight, like a…like, like caution or the feeling he got before a fight, the feeling he’d get in the middle of a mission because it was too close, too tight. He’d get fitted for a better one, probably, when he had the time spare, or…it was a way to travel anyway, so he’d do it on a day when he had time and the inclination, too. Steve wanted to see everywhere, he wanted to hear everything, and, most importantly he didn’t want a thick, black vise clamping down on his skull. It didn’t matter if he didn’t wear a helmet - he was a good enough motorcyclist and it wouldn’t do lasting damage even if he did come off. Unless it killed him, which is probably wouldn’t. Probably nothing would.

So he’d gone to the store because that was something else he’d do off-duty. Auto-pilot to the store and stare at the produce, stare at the cereal, stare at the deli counter and the bread and the newspapers and the magazines and then auto-pilot home again.

He bought fruit, cereal, meat, bread, a newspaper, a magazine.

He was leaving.

“Excuse me,” somebody said, maybe Spanish accent, as he was lifting his bags into his arms.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, trying to get out of the way as he turned to leave, but then somebody moved into his periphery and he fought the urge to block their attack because he knew, this was a grocery store, not a battlefield, fellow shopper not attacker, person, civilian, not a threat, stand down-

“No, excuse me,” and okay, Steve wasn’t in her way, though, was he, he’d already moved?

He turned his head and looked at her, and she was still moving, she came and stood right in front of him actually and, okay, maybe Steve should be saying excuse me? Latina, mid- to late-thirties, and she looked pissed, too. Come on, Steve hadn’t done a damn thing, was this somebody else who was going to yell at him about the government without realizing he wasn’t part of it?

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing, ‘uh?”

Steve frowned at her, nonplussed, then he glanced away to see if she’d mistaken him for someone else, to see if someone else though this was as nuts as he did. 

“I’m,” he said, “buying groceries?”

“Oh you’re buying groceries, Captain America, you’re buying groceries, and how you getting home, ‘uh?”

Steve narrowed his eyes, lost.

“What?”

“I know,” she said, spreading her hands and then pointing over at the parking lot. “I know how you’re getting home, you’re taking that motorbike, no?”

Steve didn’t understand, didn’t particularly want to understand, and was in no mood to deal with a random stranger taking issue with his transport. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Ma’am,” he said, “I’m going to leave.”

And he went. 

He was stowing groceries when she caught up to him. 

“No, I wanna ask you something,” she said, her ‘y’s all ‘j’s instead, it’d be a nice accent if he wanted to hear it, and he took a deep breath, closed his eyes when she stood too close, Jesus, one day he was gonna take somebody’s head off without thinkin’ if they did that. “You’re going home now, _tô certa?”_

“That’s right,” he said, because he knew a little Portuguese but he wasn’t about to make things easier for someone talking to him like they knew him when they clearly did not.

“Your uniform has a helmet, why don’t you?” she said.

Steve stopped what he was doing, stared at his groceries for a moment, and fought back he urge to say, ‘ex _cuse_ me?’ He suspected the look he gave her conveyed it instead, but she wasn’t deterred. She didn’t flinch, she just stood there, hands on her hips.

“Oh, I _have_ a helmet,” he told her, feeling his body go still the way it would before a fight.

He wasn’t sure he cared - she may not be yelling or jabbing fingers at him, but he still had no idea who she was, she didn’t really have any business coming up to him while he'd just been trying to do his goddamn groceries.

“Okay,” she said. “Where?”

“What?” he asked, and she held her hands out, looked left and right.

“Where is your helmet?”

Steve stared at her for a long few seconds, looked upward at the reasonable weather and then swung his leg over his motorcycle.

“With all due respect, Ma’am,” he said, and started the bike, “that’s none of your damn business.”

And he went to turn the bike, to pull the handlebars around, and she _stood in the way._ He didn’t rev the bike, he could be patient, he could handle this. She wasn’t even yelling, he’d just look like an ass, his PR manager would have a meltdown. 

“Listen, _Captain America._ I have two little kids at home. Two little kids who love you, who watch you on the TV, who ask me to buy the newspaper when they put your picture on the front. When Captain America throws a shield, they throw their little plastic shields. When Captain America fights a big monster, they fight an imaginary monster in street, in the yard. When Captain America shows up on Sesame Street and says ‘look both ways before you cross the street, and listen to your mama,’ they look both ways and they wait for me, so with all due respect… _Captain._ If you got a helmet, where is it, ‘uh?’ ”

And he didn’t really know what made him do it, wasn’t really sure where it had come from. It was just out, too loud and too harsh, he just said,

“I don’t need it, lady, teach your kids that.”

And regretted it instantly. She had to be thirty-five at most, five-six at best, she had kids and a life and here he was acting like an asshole because he was just trying to do his groceries. But before he could apologize, she smiled, a hurt, twisted little thing. 

“You don’t _want_ it, _menino_ , there’s a difference,” and she stepped back out of the way. “Maybe you ought to ask yourself why.”

You know why, and then she turned around and walked away, and Steve almost, _almost_ shouted to her. Still, what did it matter? As long as she felt better, he supposed.

~

He was pissed when he got back, though, dumping his groceries onto the kitchen table to figure out what needed the refrigerator.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. 

Because it was! How dare she just assume she understood him or that she knew what-

He figured she’d obviously never had a fucking panic attack in a helmet, for one, but-

God and they were so, why did it even matter, who _did_ that? Who came up to people in public and just shouted-

Okay, she hadn’t been shouting, she’d been reasonable but, but who just stuck their nose in on someone else’s day?

That was the twenty-first century for you, Steve figured - nobody could leave well enough alone.

Once he’d stocked the fridge he looked at it. He could make pasta. Or risotto. Or something but. 

He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been hungry this morning, either, and it was probably good for resistance training or something if he skipped lunch as well. At least then his evening meal would taste good.

~

It almost did and, later, as he was doing the dishes, he shook his head, still pissed off.

He wasn’t sure why it stuck with him so hard - maybe ‘cause nobody’d done this to him for a while.

“Yeah, why the hell should I wear a helmet?” he muttered at the cat-shaped soap dispenser on the window sill, elbow deep in suds (Natasha hated that he did dishes by hand when the apartment had a dishwasher, but he didn’t use the rest of the appliances for the most part, so why would he bother with that?) “ ‘Why wouldn’t I want to wear a fucking helmet,’ there’s a million fucking reasons,” and he could count all of them.

A voice surprisingly like Bucky’s in the back of his mind said _you know why_ and it was true, of course he knew, he could write a whole fucking _list._

The only ones that were sticking with him at that particular moment were the usual ones - the helmet was too tight, and he didn’t need to wear one - but there were tons of reasons. 

How could he hear properly, that was one. 

Yeah. 

And, AND, okay, if he wore a helmet, what would happen if the strap got caught? He’d break his neck. It didn’t fucking matter anyway, even if he didn’t wear one on duty he’d be fine. 

What the hell, who did she think she was? 

~

He was still thinking about it when he was trying to get to sleep - not that he could, of course, not when he was thinking so hard. He did that a lot, actually, but tonight it was just irritation.

He rolled over and looked at the clock.

Might as well get up for a run anyway, he’d only have two hours even if he fell asleep right that second. He’d power through the rest of the day - he’d done it before, he could do it again.

***

The next afternoon, he went running after work, too. He took his workout clothes and sparred a little with the SpecOps guys - didn’t go easy on ‘em but didn’t go one on one either. He still won - it was weird. Natasha could still get the better of him at least half the time but, lately, she and Clint had been on missions and, when he’d been trying to fight the SpecOps guys or the BlackOps guys or the field agents, he’d found that he’d start fighting, and then have won, without ever really having to think about it.

He hadn’t convinced Coulson yet but then he imagined Coulson would either lose politely in seconds or break his neck accidentally. He’d been nice enough when Steve signed his cards, but it was difficult to tell with that guy. 

It was maybe four-thirty when Steve went out. One of the SpecOps guys gave him a raised eyebrow as he stowed his stuff in his locker.

“Heading out?” he said. “I didn’t know you were on double shift?”

“I’m not on double shift,” Steve answered, throwing the nicest smile he could over his shoulder. “There’s just nothin’ on TV.”

The guy nodded - he in particular wasn’t so bad, Steve had worked with all of them once or twice and this one was competent, but Steve didn’t like how camaraderie these days was more likely to consist of unsavory topics. He preferred to just go out for a run.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and the guy nodded.

“Yeah.”

He set his phone’s timer going as he left, tried to see if could beat his own time on the Mall. Pounding feet, you know why, breathe in time, don’t have to think. He could get lost in running, could just keep going and didn’t have to worry about when or if he’d fail.

By the time his phone rang, it was starting to get dark.

“Hey,” he said, without breaking stride.

 _“You okay?”_ Sam’s voice asked immediately.

“Running,” Steve answered. “Keep talking.”

 _“Uh, okay?”_ Sam answered, but he was fairly used to Steve by now, didn’t treat him like an oddity, just sort of took him in his stride. _“I mean really I’m callin’ to see if you want to come over for a beer,_ he said. _“Me an’ my girl goin’ out and I thought I’d play the Cap card.”_

Steve huffed a laugh, turned a corner. He’d be coming up on Lincoln soon.

“Sure you want me there?” he says. 

_“What, you gonna yell at my girlfriend, too?”_

Steve slowed down for a couple of steps, drew a deep breath, sped up again.

“So that’s why you’re callin’,” he said. “Where is it, they put me on the Post or are you on your gossip websites again?”

 _“I got Google set up to tell me when you get into shit,”_ Sam answered, _“because I know you.”_

Steve snorted.

“She came up to _me_ ,” he said. “Came over to tell me-” yeah, but he can’t say this to Sam, can he? Sam wouldn’t get it, “-oh she, I don’t know. Didn’t like the uniform or something.”

 _“That’s not what she says she said,”_ Sam answered, and Steve did stop this time, set his hands on his knees - he wasn’t sure how long he’d been running for, he couldn’t remember how many times he’d run his route.

“What?” he said, breathing hard. “What do you mean?”

 _“She’s from Moms4Safety,”_ Sam said, _“with a number four,”_ and Steve winced, that didn’t sound good.

“Shhhhit,” he muttered. “What the hell is that, Sam, Facebook?”

There was a long silence. 

_“Started out that way. Seems like their blog’s got a lotta photos of somebody floutin’ D.C. helmet laws-”_

“Oh for- Come _on,_ Sam,” he said, and then he picked up running again, step after step. “You know I don’t gotta wear a fuckin’ helmet.”

 _“I know you do if you wanna ride a Harley in D.C.,”_ Sam said.

“I’m hanging up,” Steve said, feet pounding the stone. 

_“I just wanted to know-”_ Sam said.

“What’s to know?” Steve bit out, yeah, there was Abe, Steve’s heart was racing. “She came over, she told me I didn’t want to wear a helmet, said her kids liked to play Avengers, and then she left.”

_“And you said, quote, ‘I don’t need it, lady, teach your kids that.’ Right?”_

“I don’t!” Steve answered, his lungs were burning. “I don’t need a goddamn helmet!”

_“You wear one for work.”_

His heart.

“I’m fighting aliens on the job.”

_“What happens if you crash?”_

His lungs.

“I won’t crash.”

_“What if somebody else does? What if somebody runs a red and t-bones you at seventy, and you go scrapin’ over asphalt head-first without a helmet?”_

“You and I both know that wouldn’t work,” Steve said as he came toward the end of the footpath, coming up on where he’d run out at the end of the reflecting pool, and then-

He felt -

 _“Work?”_ Sam said, and Steve could hear the echo of it in his head, could remember the feel of his own mouth forming the word.

“N- Uh, no, I mean,” he said, “uh, wo- uh, work- _no,_ I. I mean.”

_“Steve…where are you right now?”_

“I gotta go, Sam,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up, he kept moving.

You know why. This was bullshit. This was bullshit, he just fucking hated- 

He didn’t pick up when Sam rang him back, he had better things to think about. How the hell was he supposed to go running if he had to talk on the phone? He couldn’t regulate his breathing like that. He knew there were people looking at him, but that had never mattered before, and it didn’t matter now.

He-

It’s not, he wasn’t trying, he just-

What the hell business was it of everyone else if he wanted it to stop? It’s not like he was trying to- 

To- 

You know- 

You can’t, he couldn’t, it’s a-

_It’s a sin-_

He just, why did everyone-

His skin was prickling. His heart was racing. Please no, not here, not in public.

He hung a left at Abe instead, to go around back of the monument instead of up along the reflecting pool, to lean on the walls, to-

Somebody took a photo with the flash on in the gloom of the evening, and he stumbled, didn’t fall, this body couldn’t fucking fail, could it?

He should have brought water, his head was spinning, his lungs were burning, he went around the side.

The plane- 

Train- 

Car and the- 

How- 

Wait-

“Hey, aren’t you-” falling, he was falling, who was falling? “Hey, man, are you okay?”

Ears buzzing, heart pounding, lungs burning, he couldn’t stay upright, you know why, the world tilted on its axis he was having -

_an asthma_

\- a panic attack.

He pressed his back to the wall and put his head down, slid until he could get his face onto his kneecaps, sitting on cold stone as night drew in, he felt sick, you know why, he felt _sick_

His mouth was full of saliva and his head was aching -

He felt sick, it- 

He was sweating, he felt sick, he, his feet-

“Your phone is ri- I…I’m…I’m just gonna answer your phone, okay?”

You _know_ why.

“Hello? No, I’m…Yeah, he’s…uh, okay, I think? No injuries,” somebody was saying, and Steve couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears, not even when he pressed his hands to them, couldn’t stop the burning in his lungs, you know why. “I think it’s a panic attack…Yeah, we’re by the Lincoln memorial, around the side….yeah, I’ll tell him, hey Mister? Captain Rogers, Sir? Your friend says he’s on his way. Uh, I don’t know if he can hear me, what do I do?”

Fuck.

What would his mother say, what would Bucky say, what would Peggy say?

Maybe you ought to think about-

You know why.

_My choice-_

_Not without-_

Oh, _Jesus._

 

You

 

..…….………………..…….know

 

………………..………..…….…………………………..…….why

.

.

.

***

“You with me?” Sam said softly.

Steve wasn’t sure. 

Sam had given him a cup of coffee, which he hadn’t had any of, put a blanket around his shoulders. 

“I texted Romanoff,” he said, and Steve stared at his hands on Sam’s table. 

Romanoff was on a mission. 

“You in there, Steve?”

Wheels grinding, draw air in.

“Yeah,” he said, but it came out rough, a whisper.

“A’ight,” Sam nodded, sat down next to him. “What we do from here is we take you to a medical professional and have them assess your current mental state, see how to move forward with your mental health. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he said again, looking at the way the warmth of his fingers was making marks of condensation on the polished wood.

Sam leaned back a little. 

“We can’t do that until morning,” Sam said, reaching up to brush Steve’s hair back off his forehead like his mother used to do, “but I’ll stay with you until then. Okay? You can stay here, I’ll get you pajamas, I’ll find the cot. You can have it, or you can take the couch, and then I’ll take whichever-”

“The floor,” Steve answered, and Sam nodded, settled one warm hand on his forearm for a moment. 

“Sure thing, man,” he said softly. “Sure thing.”

Sam’s pajamas were too small for him, Sam’s blankets just long enough to go over his feet. The floor was hard enough, and Sam’s breathing was soft and even.

But he didn’t sleep.

***

In the morning, Sam answered his phone for him when he sat in front of a bowl of cereal that was growing soggier with every passing second.

“They have facilities for this,” Sam said when he put the phone down. “I’m not sure I like it but…it’s up to you. If you wanna come to the VA, I’ll tell ‘em that, or you can go see their assessment unit.”

“Not them,” Steve answered, and Sam took a deep breath. “Not them.”

“Alright,” he said. “The VA it is.”

***

Annie was nice.

Quiet.

She asked him a lot of questions and he answered them as honestly as he could. 

He felt like a fool, of course. There were photographs online, they’d be in the papers by now, and in the gossip magazines by next issue. There’d be people captioning the images on social media, visiting the spot the next time they could get away.

He wanted to dissolve into the ground and go to sleep. 

With everybody else.

“I think you probably know,” Annie said, informal, Sam was with him, just an assessment, don’t worry, “that you could benefit from regular consultations with a qualified therapist.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a little while. Nodded. 

When Coulson arrived, he didn’t look as unmoved as Steve thought he might.

“I…am afraid your…” he cleared his throat, Steve saw Sam shift. “Your mission clearance has been revoked, until further assessment and treatment can be made and given. Do you understand?”

Steve nodded.

“That means you’ll need to hand in your weapon.”

Steve nodded. He meant his gun. Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out his locker key.

“It’s all yours,” he rasped.

It was strange - it was like somebody had punctured him. He hurt now more than ever, but Sam-

Sam knew about it, even if Sam couldn’t change it. Like sharing a secret. (Not a secret, everybody knew.) It wasn’t so hard to hurt. It felt like falling after trying to hold on, or sinking after trying to swim.

Breathing in ice cold water after trying to hold his breath.

***

“I called into work,” Sam said, picking his keys up off the counter. “I’m…If it’s all right with you, I’m gonna sleep on your couch for a day or two. Okay? Until we get you set up with sessions.”

There was hardly anything here that made it Steve’s - to say the place was sparse was an understatement. Whenever Sam had offered to come over, Steve usually suggested they meet at Sam’s, or go somewhere else. Usually Steve would insist on paying.

Had he really been living in this place like this? Sam’s footsteps echoed. 

“Is it suicidal if I’m just not trying very hard to live?” Steve asked, from where he was standing by the window, looking out at the street.

Sam crossed the room, came to stand near Steve.

“I don’t know, man, I’d say you oughta be doin’ more’n just…waiting for something to take you out.”

Steve looked at the road, at the cars. 

“I put a plane down,” he said, and Sam knew, everyone knew.

Steve put the plane down two days after he lost his brother. 

“Did you wanna die?” he said softly.

Steve’s head moved, he looked down, his jaw tight.

“Just,” he said, sniffing loudly before he continued. “Didn’t really care if I lived.”

Sam nodded. 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it now,” he said, “but this…it needed to happen. Otherwise you just wouldn’t come back from a mission one day, you know? That path didn’t lead nowhere good.”

Steve nodded slowly. 

Sam took a breath.

“I’m gonna go out,” he said. “Grab a couple things, give you a little space for half an hour. Will you…” And he really didn’t want to ask this but he also really didn’t want to leave without an answer. “You gonna be okay while I’m gone?”

And Steve looked at him then, in a way Sam had never seen before. Thousand yard stares were all well and good but this? This was like Steve had vacated his own head, and every person he’d ever talked about was there instead. 

He’d lost _everyone_ once, and Sam had never seen it so plainly on his face as he did now.

“Yeah.”

Sam put his keys down and called for takeout instead.

~

Steve did the dishes, because Sam had given him a glass of water when they came in, had one himself.

He ran the water, he poured the soap. 

He washed the glasses.

He dried the glasses. 

He heard it crack in his hand, dropped it when it jabbed his fingertip. 

Glass on the counter, glass on the tiles.

He pressed the dishcloth to the cut on his finger - just a little one, just a small thing, bright red blood - and sank onto the kitchen floor until he sat on the tiles, back against the door of the cupboard under the sink.

Stared at the blood until Sam came and sat with him. 

Stared at the wall

 

……. S.t.a.r.e.d....a.t....t.h.e....w.a.l.l 

 

 

…………......……… S....t....a....r....e....d.......a....t.......t....h....e.......w....a....l....l 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we learn a bit more about Steve’s therapist, Dr Amrit Singh. Dr Amrit Singh is Sikh, and I’ve done my best to be respectful of that. I’ve tried to go to accurate sources and get accurate research for the things I was unsure about when writing, but if you find when reading that I am incorrect, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I can see the characters in my head, and I want them to be as real and accurate for you as they are for me, so any corrections needed are welcomed as long as you're willing to be polite about it. Thank you :)

Amrit Singh was born in Bradford, in England, in 1976, where he lived until the age of eleven, at which point he moved to Washington D.C. with his parents and his sister, for his father’s job as an official. He attended high school in Washington D.C, he attended college there, too, and he was snapped up by US Intelligence halfway through his doctoral program on the proviso that he’d work for them for five years if they paid his fees.

He wasn’t about to turn it down - having spent most of his time training to deal with particularly difficult cases, he’d been looking, at the time, into researching for publication the lasting mental impact of the growing threats faced by military and emergency personnel, and was taking an interest in various side projects in addition to it, including the psychology of people claiming to have been abducted by aliens, and the mental repercussions of traumatic childhood incidents. His particular organization pulled him in as he turned twenty-eight, in 2005, two years before he’d finish his qualification, and told him he’d be able to use the information he garnered in any papers he wished to publish, providing all names were anonymised. 

It was a nice surprise from an official intelligence agency, especially considering the recent political occurrences, but he wasn’t told why at the time. He suspected they must have in mind a very specific set of circumstances.

In 2012, following the horrors of what the papers called the Battle of New York, and the terror of Earth’s people now knowing for certain extra-terrestrial life existed, he suddenly knew what he wanted to do, knew what his whole life had led up to. He could just as easily help with reintegration for personnel returning from missions as he could counseling and, having met a man by chance in a bakery in Washington, he quit the Intelligence agency, and went to work for the VA instead - the laws had changed, permissions had too and, although only a handful of professionals were pulled onto the VA’s payroll, he was one of them. He was given an office, and a plaque that read ‘Dr A. Singh’ on the door. His pay wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst, and he wasn’t forbidden from seeing patients elsewhere - he was even allowed to stay in DC.

And so he settled down. He got to work.

And what he did not expect, not in a million years, was to find, in January 2016, a manilla folder on his desk that actually said ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ on it. He imagined it being slapped there by his immediate manager the way manila folders were often slapped on desks in films but, when he opened it, he was not expecting the contents. He actually laughed.

_Rogers, Steven Grant - Capt. US Army. Patient RWB._

“Oh, _nahīm,_ are you joking with this?” he muttered to the file, and flipped a couple of pages.

Accolades, lists of battles fought, preliminary assessments, newspaper clippings. A medical record - everything wrong and then nothing wrong - and a potted history of the people attached to him. MIA, care home, deceased, deceased, deceased, deceased, deceased. A public meltdown.

Amrit felt a little ridiculous. This was like trying to decide how to talk to Robin Hood about the traumas of losing Merry Men to the Sheriff of Nottingham - he knew the story, even understood the kind of situations he’d be hearing about, but to sit there and treat it seriously? Probably better him than an American, obviously, given Amrit was less likely to be starstruck - Amrit knew about him but hadn’t grown up with Captain America as a national hero. He’d grown up hearing about him and thinking the guy was probably pretty obnoxious, actually - nutcase in a flag yelling about the American Dream while the rest of the world fought for freedom. 

He’d find out how wrong he was eventually but, for the time being, he was almost certain this wasn’t the best course of action - for him or for Captain America.

 _While I understand the importance of an assignment such as this,_ he wrote in his email, _I’m not certain the correct course of action is being taken. As a veteran and a member of the emergency services, I feel it might be more beneficial to Patient RWB if he were to see-_ hold on, ‘red, white and blue,’ were they serious? As though there weren’t at least twenty countries with red, white and blue flags, ugh _-someone more experienced in the field._ As in, please don’t make me sit with this action figure.

But then he backspaced the whole last sentence, closed the email down, deleted the draft.

Firstly, okay, he’d been assigned Captain America. Right, fine, okay. Secondly, this was his job. And he could be judgey, his mum always said, like, okay, fine. But regardless of what he thought of gaudy uniforms and overplayed legends, Rogers, Steven Grant’s record read like a fantasy novel. Not to mention, he’d lost his best friend maybe a week before being-

Amrit didn’t like the way the papers called it ‘Thawed’ like Rogers was a piece of meat, it wasn’t a pleasant way to think about it.

Not to mention the potted history.

All gone, aside from an ailing ex in a care home.

Besides which, as a veteran and a member of the emergency services, Rogers was Amrit’s speciality. 

Amrit sighed, opened his database and his registry software, and started to get to work.

***

The first thing that struck Amrit was something he’d seen from men who came back from Afghanistan. Paramjit at school had an older brother who’d come back from Afghan’ and looked like that. Pale and gaunt and haunted even while he’d stood taller than everybody else.

Yeah. Okay. 

Amrit stuck his hand out to Rogers. Rogers’ gaze was flickering over him - dastaar, kara, shoes, eyes - and then he blinked, eyebrows heavy over wary eyes. 

“You’re…” Rogers said. 

Okay, disappointing but not surprising. Rogers’d had an African American in his unit but maybe he’d never come across someone like Amrit before - it had been the forties after all, Amrit wouldn’t even have been allowed to drink from the same water source in this country for decades after that, he couldn’t expect someone born in 1918 to view him as an equal. Maybe that was why he’d been picked for this one - sensitivity training. The silence stretched on.

But then, when Amrit decided to end it and finish Rogers’ sentence for him, when he said “Sikh,” it was at exactly the same time that Rogers said,

“…not Annie,” which, oh, all right? And then he said “Uh, I kno- I mean, I…Oh, I-I shouldn’t have assumed but, I did assume you were Sikh. I’m sorry,” and took Amrit’s hand to shake, “uhm, Sat Sri Akaal,” which _wow_ alright?

“Sat Sri Akaal,” he responded carefully, and then he held out a hand toward the couch. “My name is Dr Singh - you’ve run into Sikh before, have you?”

“Fought with a couple in Italy,” Rogers nodded as he took a seat. “Like, more than a couple but some, yeah. Know a couple now - where you from, i-if, uh, you don’t mind me asking? You don’t sound American Sikh.”

“England,” Amrit told him. “Bradford.”

“Oh,” Rogers said quietly, looking out of the window for a moment. 

He was a big man, that was certain - around the same height as Amrit (but then, Amrit was tall anyway) - but he managed to look like he could be folded away if you needed to. Like a deck chair. 

“That’s up north, isn’t it?” he said. “I never got that far, to see it, but I-I know it got bombed in ‘41.”

“That’s right,” Amrit answered - again unusual. 

Most Americans would just ask him if that was ‘near London’ when he told them where he was from. It also was nice to have the follow-up be ‘I’ve heard of that,’ and not ‘no, I meant _originally_.’

“What happened to Annie?” Rogers murmured, and then he looked straight at Amrit, and that, that kind of stare could intimidate. 

He knew where it came from, obviously - a man like Steve Rogers was probably stubborn and careful at least on missions or he wouldn’t still be employed but still - that kind of intensity came from rejection and disappointment, from hardship and forced stoicism. He had to lead without faltering, and even if he couldn’t have extrapolated merely from the circumstances, Amrit could see the hurt in those eyes.

“I was too much for her, huh?” Rogers says, and Amrit put his pad and pen down.

“All right,” he said, “so the first thing I’m going to tell you is that therapists don’t work like that. We don’t work on the premise of ‘too much,’ we work on the idea of a ‘good fit.’ Annie felt that she wasn’t able to provide for you the kind of rapport that you would need in order to progress with your therapy.”

Rogers stared at him, stared and stared, and then looked away again, nodded once, slowly.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Do you think my job is to lie to you?” Amrit asked, and Rogers’ brows drew further together as he looked back - Amrit’s mother would be shouting at him about frown lines by now. “Do you think I would lie to you?”

Rogers didn’t answer.

“I am here because you have been assigned to me. You have been assigned to me because of the work I did during my qualifications. I’m a specialist. When they want somebody to throw a metal disk, they call you. When they want someone to assess a patient, they call Annie. When they want someone to speak to a veteran soldier who has dealt with an alien invasion and is still expected to report for active duty, they call me. I’m hoping to be a good fit for you. Otherwise I don’t get paid.”

Rogers cracked then, the corner of his mouth ticking up, and Amrit counted it as a win as Rogers went back to staring out of the window.

“Now, why are _you_ here?”

Rogers sighed heavily, hands clasped in his lap. 

“I’m here because I’ve been...” he said, the weariness evident in his voice. “Because…I’m told I should come here.”

It was petulant, almost. The voicing of that reluctance - Amrit didn’t doubt he could hide it if he wanted.

“You don’t think you need it?” Amrit asked, and Rogers didn’t look at him again yet.

“I,” he said, half a laugh, “think I’ve done alright without it so far.”

A lie, easily distinguished even if the truth hadn’t been in the media.

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then there was a long pause - Amrit could hear him thinking it over. Pushing some of it back. He could see Rogers thinking about what that kind of answer meant - yes, even though I can’t sleep, yes, even though I miss my friends, yes, even though I hate living here. “I function, don’t I? Never shot anybody accidentally on mission? I know where I am when I open my eyes?”

“Mm,” Amrit nodded. “And that’s the sum of…being healthy?”

“It’s enough to get by, isn’t it?” Rogers countered, and this-

Rogers’ every answer was like pulling teeth even though they were barely speaking. He left huge wheel-turning gaps between his words, the silence ringing after them. 

Worse was this terrible attitude - Amrit had seen it in Marines and SEALs and high-up personnel who subscribed to that level of toxicity because their environments demanded it. When had the world decided that people in pain should just be happy it wasn’t worse?

Rogers hadn’t just had it reinforced by his job - he’d grown up in a world where that was the norm.

“Don’t you need any more than getting by?” he asked.

“Why should I?” Rogers answered, glancing at him. “I never have before. Plenty of other people-” And then he narrowed his eyes, shook his head. “No, I mean,” he said, and didn’t say anything for a long few moments. “I mean look at me. I’m healthy, I have plenty to eat, I have a job…I’m not wanting for anything, I got far more money than I need…”

Amrit waited but he didn’t go any further than that.

 _Don’t you have any hobbies?_ his father’s voice echoed.

“And that’s the sum of being healthy,” he reiterated instead, “you’re…you’re well fed? And you’re not sick?”

Rogers looked confused. Amrit had hoped perhaps it was a facade, that he didn’t want to admit he needed more than just-getting-by, but the confusion on his face now showed he genuinely believed it, at least for the most part.

“Well, yeah.”

Amrit shook his head.

“And your happiness doesn’t come into it?”

Rogers scoffed immediately. 

“Wh- I’m happy?”

Nothing more convincing than a statement that sounded like a question, from a face that was tight with anxiety. The phrase ‘cornered animal’ came to mind.

Amrit gave him a few seconds.

“Are you?”

“Yeah!” Rogers answered without hesitation (too quickly), and loudly, too. “I-I live in a nice place, and I have friends, y’know, I…” he looked annoyed. “I mean, how’m I s’posed to prove to you I’m happy?”

“Maybe don’t come in here with a face like a broken clock-” Amit answered, and Rogers scoffed again, reeled backwards as he looked away.

“Oh, come on.”

Amrit waited. 

Sometimes the patient would speak first, but no matter if he didn’t. They had as much time as they needed, and letting him sit and think would likely yield useful results.

“You’re here with me for a reason,” Amrit said eventually, when it became apparent Rogers wasn’t going to speak without prompting. “And the first of those reasons is that you’re having a breakdown.”

“I had it already.”

“That's when it came to a head,” Amrit says, “you are currently having a breakdown. Recovery won’t be instant, and neither was the onset and manifestation of the problem.”

Rogers’ jaw tightened.

“Ahuh,” he said, eyes averted.

“I’m going to be blunt with you, Captain,” Amrit continued. “There’s a reason you’re having a breakdown and it’s because you’ve lost everybody you love.”

Rogers’ head whipped around, and he stared with that angry intensity again.

“Yeah, and I can’t change that, can I?” he said.

“And so it doesn’t affect you at all?”

“Of course it affects me!” Rogers answered, angry, frustrated. And then his shoulders drooped, his voice went quiet. “I…Of course it affects me. But what is talking about it supposed to do?”

“Well there’s research that proves talking about it can help you process your grief,” Amit told him.

“I’ve processed my grief.”

“Pushing it down is not the same as processing it.”

Rogers clenched his jaw and shook his head, glared at Amrit.

“Please tell me some more about myself.”

“I don’t need to tell you anything, you’re telling me!” Amrit answered. “It’s blatantly obvious - you know _that’s_ my job, don’t you?”

“What, sitting there and explaining to me what I’m feeling?” Rogers bit out.

“Yes, pretty much!”

Rogers rolled his eyes, shook his head, clasped his hands as he leaned forward and started tapping his foot as he looked out of the window again.

“Look, I don’t know how it works with other people but…I don’t need somebody telling me what to do-”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Amrit told him. “I’m not going to tell you what to feel, either. I forget, of course, where you come from. _When_ you come from.” Rogers flinched. “But I think it’s important to mention, I’m not here to _tell you how to feel_. I’m here to help you understand what it is that you’re feeling already. I’m not giving orders, I’m helping you decipher. Now, you tell me you’re happy but I don’t see it.”

Rogers grew more impatient, more anxious.

“I’m functioning. Alright? How can you expect me to be…” he looked halfway between nauseated and very, very tired. “Happy after…. Happy is not something that’s attainable and I’m…I’ve made my peace with that.”

Amrit narrowed his eyes, looked carefully at him. At peace did not look the way this man looked.

“Have you?” he said.

“Haven’t I?” Rogers answered, and _that_ had been loud. Sudden and loud, much more so than Amrit was expecting and, slowly, Rogers’ angry expression faded, changed into remorse. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Amrit held up a hand, shook his head, _don’t worry._ “I have enough,” Rogers murmured. “I have a life, and friends. I’m alive.”

“Well, that’s complicated at the best of times,” Amrit noted.

“Being alive?”

“Yes,” he said, just as quickly as Rogers had answered. “Have you heard of survivor’s guilt?”

For a long few moments, Rogers did nothing, and then he narrowed his eyes. Despite his almost complete silence between words, he was almost never still. Jigging one leg, twinging and releasing his fingers, chewing his lower lip.

“…yeah,” he said eventually, although his quick once-over didn’t go unnoticed.

“Did you hear about it just now?” Amrit said and, thankfully, Rogers took it as the joke it was meant.

“No?” he said, defensively, in a way that meant ‘maybe.’ “No, I have heard about it but it’s…” He shook his head, frustration coloring the twist of his mouth. “It’s part of war.”

“You’re not at war,” Amrit told him.

“No,” Rogers answers, “but I was. We were,” and he didn’t seem to know what he wanted to say next, didn’t seem to be sure what he was saying was what he wanted to say out loud. “You just deal with it, you just…” he said, still jigging, and then, far more quietly, “deal with it.”

“And if you can’t?”

“If you can’t,” Rogers said, looking hard this time, unforgiving as he straightened his shoulders, “you get sent home in a van if you’re not shot first, and they take you to Bellvue so you can rot.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

“No, they closed Bellvue years ago,” he said, almost before Amrit finished speaking - a bitter joke at his own expense.

In the silence that followed, Amrit could see Steve’s eyes change, see his shoulders hunch. He sucked his teeth, cleared his throat, looked away.

“I suspect you wish you hadn’t said that,” Amrit said softly, and Steve nodded once, curt, sharp.

“Yup.”

“Can I point out it’s also not my job to put you in an asylum?” Amrit continued. Rogers didn’t acknowledge him, just chewed his lip and stared out of the window. “We don’t do that any more.”

“Yup,” Rogers said.

He lifted a finger to press his tongue to it, getting rid of the skin he’d just chewed off his lip, sticking his hand in his _pocket_ for a moment instead of wiping it off on his pants. Either he wanted to keep the skin or he was trying to keep Amrit’s office clean - Amrit suspected the latter. 

He could see the tension over Rogers’ shoulders, the tightness of his mouth, he’d seen his ears move back a little as they did for some men, and he knew the cause of such a response.

“Is it something you were frightened of?”

“’Course it’s something I’m afraid of,” low and fast, present tense, Amrit noticed, and then Rogers was staring at him, “for a multitude of reasons.”

Amrit didn’t balk - you couldn’t with a man like this.

“Would you like to explain any of them to me?” he said instead.

“Mainly ‘cause I was sick all the time!” Rogers half shouted. And then, when next he spoke, his voice was bitter though he seemed to be smiling. “But I don’t gotta worry about that now.”

“Mm,” Amrit nodded, and he strategically looked down at his notebook. “You heal constantly. That must be terrifying.”

In the two, three, four, five— 

“What?”

— five seconds of silence that followed, Amrit could hear Rogers thinking, could hear him processing something he hadn’t expected to hear.

“Well…whenever you’re injured you know you’re going to heal,” Amrit said, looking up again to find Rogers meeting his gaze. “You’re going to be back out in the field very shortly. No rest for the...” he gestured “…perpetually called-upon.”

“I mean,” Rogers said, glancing aside as he leaned forward, as though he wasn’t sure Amrit was smart enough to understand, “that’s the whole point, that’s wh…that’s why I am what I am, that’s why they made me?”

Amrit shook his head, lowered his voice.

“You’re a human being, Captain, you were _born_. Weapons don’t have feelings, do they?”

Rogers sat back, flumping back into the couch, passing a hand over his eyes.

“This weapon would like to not have any feelings.”

Amrit nodded, put the pad and pen down.

“All right, let’s start again,” he said. “You’re not a weapon, you’re a human being. You can behave like a weapon, you have been trained to act like a weapon, but you are a human being - you have a heart, a mind, some would say a soul-”

Rogers laughed a sound that was brittle and fragile, broken glass held in the frame by its own friction, ready to fall. 

“I know what you mean, sorry,” he said. “I just wonder sometimes.”

“Mm, I know I didn’t phrase that particularly well,” Amrit told him. “But weapons go back on the rack at the end of the day, Captain, they don’t lie awake in bed during the night.”

Rogers looked at him then, frowning, wary, an unspoken question.

“No, I didn’t know you do that, but your face just told me I’m right.” Rogers made a different face, huffed, looked away. “I think you want to talk. That’s why you say all these little things - ‘I’d like to stop feeling,’ ‘they closed Bellvue.’ Those are things you know I’ll pick up on, and I think you’re trying to reach out, but you don’t know where to start.”

Rogers said nothing.

“Let me rephrase,” Amrit told him, trying to be gentle. “Your head thinks this is stupid - you were raised that way - that this is a waste of time, it’s never going to help you. But there’s part of you that wants what I’m telling you to be true. That we help you find out what you’re feeling. That we won’t just dump you in a mental asylum. There’s part of you that knows this is how you heal. _That’s_ why you’re here, that’s why _you have come_ here - nobody can make _you_ do _anything_ you don’t want to do.”

Rogers still said nothing.

“I read the papers, Captain. You’ve come to the right place, voluntarily. You’re one of the world’s greatest tacticians, but I’ve never seen somebody test me so obviously. So I don’t think you’re testing me, I think you’ve made your choice and you want me to think you’re testing me. You already trust me as a person, but you’re tired, and you’re wary, and you come from a place that can’t trust me yet as a professional. You work for SHIELD but I don’t carry their agenda. I don’t care if you’re cleared for missions or taken off them permanently, _my_ priority is the wellbeing of suffering veterans. _You.”_

Rogers’ jaw stuck out even further, redness at the tip of his nose. He wanted to believe _that,_ Amrit could see. He was losing control over his ability to stay quiet, too - breaths coming faster, mouth twitching.

“How am I ever supposed to find a place to start?” Rogers said on a breath, leaning forward, gesticulating - out of his tight, self-imposed little box. “How am I _ever_ supposed to find a place to _start?_ I was born in 1918. I lived through the Depression, through the war, you know they gave my group o’ soldiers a name, I didn’t even know what it _meant_ when I thawed out. My life is in history books now, my best friend….is probably at the bottom of a ravine, the woman I love is in a nursing home, and everyone else is dead. Even half the city’s gone.”

“I cannot imagine the pain that you are feeling,” Amrit told him.

“And yet,” Rogers rasped, “you want me to just _talk_ about it? How am I supposed to do that? How’s that gonna do me any good?”

“We all have to start somewhere.”

“If I start-” and then his voice caught and Amrit _watched him_ shut it down. Like a steel grate or a brick wall, one moment he was talking to an anxious young man in his late twenties, the next he was talking to Captain America. “I just easier if I don’t. It’s easier to…do things day by day if…I just…keep going forwards.” He looked away, and Amrit wondered what he was seeing when he did, what memories he was navigating. “You know? Just forwards,” he muttered. “There’s no point looking back,” head shaking, hands clasped. “There’s no point.”

Amrit waited for him to subside a little. This was going to be complicated, for certain. Rogers wanted help but didn’t want to admit it. Rogers didn’t want help but admitted he needed it. He trusted and didn’t trust, he could cope but couldn’t cope. He believed this was the way forward and scoffed at the thought of emotions - he was twenty different attitudes all warring with self and past-self, the man he’d grown up as and the man he’d grown into. To say he was twisted up, to say there were layers, well. That was the understatement of the century. But there _was a part_ that was trying to speak. 

A part trying to give clues so that Amrit could pick up on them, so that Rogers could be satisfied he hadn’t given himself away, it would only be that Amrit was perceptive. A part trying to speak so that Amrit could listen, so that Rogers could say these things and have them out, clean the wounds and be satisfied that it was the proper way.

“Grief is a funny thing, Captain,” Amrit said, and he’d lowered his voice because Rogers seemed to have calmed a little. “Some of us push it down and away. Of the ones who do, some are able to live that way, but it hurts. Sometimes we have nightmares, or we get angry. Or we lose track of time. And it hurts. I can’t make it go away, therapy is not a cure. But I’m hoping that I can help it hurt less, day by day.”

“How?” Rogers murmured, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “From the moment I was born…” and then he thought better of it. _“How?”_

“Well Captain,” Amrit said, sitting back in his chair, “you need a specialist. That’s why I’ve been assigned to you-”

“Please,” Rogers whispered, his eyes closing. “Please stop calling me that.”

Amrit nodded though Rogers couldn’t see him.

“All right,” he said. “My name is Amrit. It’s nice to meet you, Steve.”

***

There was a lot to be said for Captain Rogers. Polite, observant, compassionate and damaged. Sometimes he shouted, sometimes he was silent for a long time. He hated to cry and Amrit worried sometimes he’d break his teeth clenching his jaw to stop it. Sometimes he listened to Amrit, sometimes his body was present and his mind was no longer in the room.

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” he said.

Slowly, Steve shook his head.

“No,” he said, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know.”

Amrit nodded.

“Where do you go when you stop being here with me?”

Steve shut his eyes this time, lowered his head and sighed.

“Lotta places,” he said. “Trenches. Barracks.”

“The war?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Or…somewhere I never was, you know? Things I never got.” He spoke like every word was sad to admit. As though he were tired of every thought. Both were probably true. “I get sidetracked. You ask me about somethin’ or someone and suddenly I start thinkin’ ‘bout what life could’a been like.”

There was so much silence between them. He paused so often. Amrit could hear the tightness in his throat, understood the many things he didn’t say in amongst the things he did. Amrit could give him time, and silence. A man like Steve probably didn’t get any of either elsewhere.

“And sometimes just,” he said, his voice rough. “Home.”

***

“What if it takes a year?”

“What if it takes more?”

“Doc-”

“If you hit your head, you’d need to wait out the concussion. If you broke your leg, you’d need to rest until it healed. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t need time to heal.”

“I just-”

“Oh, just pretend it’s internal bleeding or something.”

Rogers laughed ruefully.

“Well I got plenty of experience there.”

***

“May I ask you a personal question?” Steve said, and Amrit nodded.

“You can ask,” he said, and Steve smiled ruefully, hands coming up in front of him.

“That’s fair,” he said. “I just wondered, do you match your dastar to your tie on purpose?”

Amrit laughed.

“I do,” he said, tapping the small strip of fabric visible across his forehead under the dastar, “and my patka to my shirt, sometimes. It’s a work thing, I only wear neutrals for the most part when I’m here so it’s not so difficult.”

Of course he’d notice - an artist, who used to be colourblind. 

Steve nodded.

***

“Who on Earth are you?” Amrit said, and the bland looking man in a suit smiled blandly.

“A concerned party,” he said.

“Well I don’t discuss my patients with any parties.”

The man didn’t stop smiling.

“I’m Agent Coulson,” he said. “I’m Captain Rogers’ liaison.”

“I’m his therapist,” Amrit answered. “So I don’t care if you’re the pope.”

Coulson smiled at him, that bland smile.

“That’s just fine,” he said. “We can tell that he’s improving.”

“You can leave now,” Amrit told him.

Coulson lowered his head, a low nod of defeat.

“Of course.”

***

_“I’m sorry,”_ Steve’s voice said. _“I…I don’t know why I…why I…”_

“It’s all right,” Amrit said, phone clamped between his ear and his shoulder as he entered the details into his system. “Would you like me to stay on the phone with you? This is your appointment time, we can just talk about your cooking if you want, see if we can’t persuade you to get out of bed in a while?” 

_“I’m,”_ Steve says. _“Thank you.”_

“That’s what I’m here for.”

***

“When you say you’re tired,” Amrit said quietly, “that you want to rest…How long for?”

Steve doesn’t answer.

It’s answer enough.

***

“What gets you out of bed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Food?”

“Not always.”

“A mission?”

“Yeah.”

“And yet only one of those is required to live.”

***

_“No, I’d call it a pretty good week,”_ Steve said - the signal was pretty good considering.

“Oh?” Amrit asked, and he tried to remember to look at the camera, not the screen. 

Steve was doing a remarkably good job of it himself, actually - tactical consultant wasn’t technically in the field, even if they did need to take him all the way out with them, but he seemed all right for now - and perhaps he was finding it easier to talk with some distance, to talk to a small lens instead of a whole human being.

 _“Yeah, I went out with Natasha,”_ Steve told him, smiling a little. _“She wanted to take me to this gelato place, it was nice.”_

“You had ice cream?”

 _“Yeah,”_ Steve nodded, showing teeth when he smiled this time. _“I had a lot. And I mean, I can eat a lot ‘cause of the serum but it was…it was nice. I took my sketchbook and, you know, okay, I was anxious - I’m not on duty but it’s always, we always worry, you know? But it was nice.”_

“You enjoyed yourself?” Amrit said.

_“Yeah.”_

Amrit smiled.

“Good.”

_I knew you needed a hobby,_ Amrit’s dad whispered in the back of his mind, and Amrit tried not to roll his eyes at his _Ḍaiḍī._

***

“You’re sleeping with two people?”

“Yeah,” Steve murmured. “At the, they’re together- They agreed. You know? Not…just. I miss- Am I, is this appropriate? Are you okay to talk about this?”

“It’s fine,” Amrit answered. “I don’t need a blow by blow description unless you had some kind of epiphany mid-coitus but I’m not put off by the idea of a grown man enjoying himself sexually, especially given that it’s something you seem to need. The proximity, the physicality. It makes sense for you.”

“Well,” Steve said, and he did look a little uncomfortable. “I mean, it’s just. Something. I didn’t know if I should say so ‘cause I. Don’t know if it matters.”

Amrit nodded.

“It can, sometimes,” he said. “I won’t ask for names, I don’t need the names, but…everything is consensual?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve answered. 

“And you know that you can come to me if you have any questions. If there are any problems that might arise.”

“You mean if I accidentally call the guy…” he said, and then his eyes slid sideways. “Uh, I mean, you kne- You knew that, right? That I like both, a-are you okay with that?”

“I had some idea that you might be bisexual,” Amrit nodded. “It’s certainly no issue to my mind.”

He watched Steve deflate in relief.

***

“Well it’s a sin, ain’t it?! Huh? Not a damn surprise either, the hell kinda coward — hell kinda man do I gotta be, I got all’a this, friends, a life, my health, money. All this. What the hell is wrong with me? What kinda person has all this and still wants out? They, my, _before_ , my friends gave everything. And they’re all gone and now I’m here and I….my mother would…everything she gave me, and I don’t want it. God, I thought I was getting better!”

“Recovery isn’t linear, Steve, bad days are a fact of life. This is not a cure but you’ve been doing well at learning how to cope with it, it’s not the end of the world that you feel like this now.”

“I don’t wanna feel this way,” Steve breathed, put his face into his hands. “I don’t wanna feel this way any more.”

***

He turned back, held out the packet he was holding.

“Uh, I wasn’t sure what to get so I hope this is. Okay. Uh. Happy Bandi Chhor Divas.”

Amrit took it - wasn’t supposed to, but Steve didn’t need to know that. He could just hand it to his boss later on - and Steve left, a small, rueful smile before he pulled the door to behind him and was gone.

Amrit went to his desk - it couldn’t hurt to know, even if he wasn’t keeping it. 

Inside the package was a tie, a card, and a blank cheque. 

_I know there’s a ceremony to exchange dastar, and that it has great significance for Sikh,_ read the handwritten Bandi Chhor Divas card - watercolor image, no watermark. Handmade - _so I didn’t buy you one. On an unrelated note, SHIELD employee plans cover the fees for my sessions, but I feel you’re probably underpaid._

And then the website where the tie came from, with a suffix that would later prove to be for the matching dastar.

Amrit chuckled.

***

Steve wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee and breathed in.

“I’m given to understand it’s better than most peoples’ coffee,” Amrit said, “so thank you. I’m sure we wouldn’t have been given a good coffee-maker if I didn’t have a patient who so appreciated good coffee.”

Steve smiled, settled back into the couch and sighed.

“So,” Steve said, and Amrit smiled too.

“So,” he answered. “How have you been this week?”

***


	4. Chapter 4

In the end, it would take eight months.

The first thing Steve did, on Sam’s advice, was ignore the media, for a month. No newspapers, running on a treadmill instead of out in public, ignoring his phonecalls, avoiding the news, leaving his personal media devices un-charged. 

“I want to do something,” Steve said, after his second session with Dr Singh.

Sam finished pouring them coffee and looked at him.

“Do something?” he said, sounding dubious.

Steve was bouncing his leg.

“Yeah,” he said. “I looked it up on one of the computers at work - sure I’m meant to wear a helmet in D.C., there’s fines too. More for repeat offenders. I’m a repeat offender.”

“I think it’s a little more complicated than that,” Sam said, but Steve shook his head.

“Yeah but my point,” he said, “is…she’s right.”

Sam frowned.

“Who, Moms4Safety?”

Steve threw the brightly colored magazine down onto the kitchen table. His picture was on the front - taken with a very long-lens, grainy and splotchily-colored - from that afternoon at the store, depicting him leaning forward at the woman who’d confronted him. Alongside it was a much clearer photograph of her, looking straight at the camera, with the caption,

THIS MOM’S 4 ACCOUNTABILITY - STOPPING THE BUCK WITH CAP

Wow, that was low.

“Her name’s Marcia,” Steve said, and Sam frowned, picked at the cover with his fingers. 

“When did you get this piece of -”

“It was on the table in the waiting area at the VA,” Steve said. “The article’s not as sensationalist as the title but she made a good point in the parking lot and she makes a good point on the page. I want to try and make it up to her - and the people like her.”

Sam tilted his head, wary. He looked at Steve. The likelihood was that Steve had already decided to do something, talking like that. The most Sam would be able to do was advise. And then he nodded. Still, better to know than not to know.

“Alright, man,” he said. “Alright, what d’you wanna do?”

Steve took a deep breath in through his nose and breathed out slowly. Sam knew he thought it was dumb, but it was visibly helping, so he’d have to get used to doing it.

“Well to start with,” he said, “I want to pay my fines.”

***

“It’s my intention,” Steve said, head down despite the multitude of camera flashes, voice echoing back at him, “to pay the fines listed, as laid out in the document sent from my representatives to the office of the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Colombia, as collected from the information gathered by ‘Moms4Safety.’ I would like, at this juncture, to pass my thanks onto Marcia Hernandez, whose paperwork is being filed in evidence of my flouting District of Colombia helmet laws, and Jeff Williamson, whose presence at the Lincoln Memorial on the fifteenth was greatly appreciated."

“I would also like to apologize for my conduct regarding road safety, and my conduct regarding my interaction with Ms Hernandez, and to announce that, as of today, I am no longer on active duty-”

The room got to its feet, reporters yelling, and Steve didn’t look up.

“-and will remain out of action until further notice, pending approval by a mental health professional, spending time in recovery, and in service of the community instead. Thank you.”

“You really think it’s a good idea to announce he ain’t gonna be around?” Sam was saying to Coulson as Steve passed him in the wings coming down off the platform.

“You’re assuming it was my decision,” Coulson answered, smile bland as always.

***

“That’s right,” Sam said, and Steve frowned, copied the movement. “That’s right, there you go, you got it, just keep on kneading. Yeah?”

Steve nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “What,” he cleared his throat. “What am I looking for?”

“You’re gonna want it smooth,” Sam answers softly, reaches over to point at the dough, but doesn’t touch. “Just smooth, soft, elastic. Okay?”

Steve nodded.

The potatoes were busy boiling, the onions were done, Sam had even brought his own homemade schmaltz to cook with.

And this, this was just dough. All Steve had to do was pay attention to the dough. He couldn’t hurt anyone or cause any problems with the dough that couldn’t either be solved by Sam’s knowledge, or ignored with a do-over.

“Okay,” he said.

***

He wasn’t on missions, of course, but he would have gone stir-crazy without the physical training, the serum hated to be idle. But Steve became aware of something the next time he went into SHIELD for paperwork, for physical training.

Firstly, people were keeping their distance, unless making it very obvious that they were standing close. Some spoke softly and carefully - always welcome even if it wasn’t necessary - and some spoke slowly. Which was annoying as fuck.

He’d been in the gym, on the mats, warming up with nobody wanting to take the opposite place. After ten minutes of waiting to spar, he said,

“For fuck’s sake, it’s PTSD not a fucking pipe bomb.”

There was silence for a long few moments, and then one of the SpecOps guys came over. People took turns again after that.

But, when he spoke to Atticus in PR about pursuing various avenues for the listed community service (the fines piled up, Marcia had so, so many photos. And nobody was going to put Captain America in jail), Atticus was weird with him. Curt. Short.

“You know,” he said, “you’re not making my job easy.”

And something dangerous shifted in his head, Steve felt it. 

“Easy?” he said - and then suddenly, suddenly, there was Coulson, of all people. 

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

Steve clenched his jaw, backed off.

“No, Sir,” he said.

Attitcus snorted.

“No,” he said. “Just that the media’s going to dine out on this for-”

“This man fought a World War, lost a brother two days before he was forced to put a plane down in the Arctic, and woke up a week before aliens invaded New York. I don’t remember protocol dictating you complain to those members of staff you represent, rather than your manager. Is there a problem?”

Atticus clenched his jaw, too.

“No, Sir,” he bit out.

Coulson smiled, that same unassuming smile.

“Good,” he said. “A word, Captain.”

Steve followed when Coulson moved, went first when Coulson opened the door for him, and stood to one side as Coulson came out of the office to join him and closed the door.

“He’ll be reassigned by the end of the week,” he said. 

Steve felt his mouth drop open, shook his head.

“I-”

“Standard procedure,” Coulson told him. “A job is required. If he can’t do it, he gets reassigned. Have a nice day.”

By the time he thought of something to say, Coulson was gone.

***

“I don’t want to be violent,” Steve said, hugging himself. “I just am. Violent tendencies are _who I am_.”

Amit nodded.

“They don’t have to be,” he said. “Change is difficult, but not impossible.”

Steve nodded.

“I’m trying,” he said.

***

When Steve said, “It’s open,” the door swung inward and Clint walked straight in.

Steve stood up, surprised - he hadn’t even known they were back from-

Clint kissed his face, cheek, cheekbone, temple, hands in his hair.

“I’m sorry we weren’t here,” he said, as Nat walked around them to press a kiss to Steve’s other cheek. “We didn’t even have contact, I’m so sorry.”

 _“Kogo ya dolzhna ubit'?”_ she said, wrapped her arms around him from the other side. 

He smiled, shook his head, and put his forehead down against Clint’s shoulder, and just breathed.

***

Steve hugged Sam hello when he showed up at the field, grinned and tossed him a bottle of water before cracking one open himself and downing about half in one go.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, and then raised his voice, clapping his hands. “Alright, everybody - back to the start, we’ll do it again - first one back gets an extra scoop!”

And yeah, Sam thought, as the herd of small children went running back to the start of the obstacle course, all of them wearing helmets, of course. This was the kind of place where Steve belonged, just like he belonged with the small group of teenagers who’d been spiking garbage off the paths in the park, and with the kids in the local college who were studying history. 

Three years, and Sam had known it was bad but he hadn’t known how bad - nobody had. 

This was where Steve belonged - making a difference.

“Fun part is they don’t know I’m gonna call it a tie and they’re all getting an extra scoop,” Steve muttered, grinning.

He looked so different when he smiled.

***

When Marcia opened her front door, he could see from her face that he was the last person she expected to see. He’d managed to give the Paparazzi the slip, and he’d come in his civvies, during school hours. He didn’t want to screw things up with her kids if this went badly.

“Hi,” he said, slowly. “I, uh. Hi.”

“What do you want?”

Steve took a deep breath. 

“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You said it on the TV,” she answered, and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “But that was in front of the press, anybody can tell TV cameras they’re sorry. I wanted to say it to you. In person.”

“You paid your fines,” she said. 

“I did,” he answered. “Except I have so much backpay it might as well be nothing. That’s why…the community service I asked for… They’re gonna have me doin’ more of the little league stuff, PSAs, trash collecting, all that. I could be doing window cleaning, it wouldn’t matter, the point is, it’s been too long since I cared about doing the right thing and I want to make it right. I’m trying to make it right.”

She leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest.

“So you’ve said you’re sorry,” she said. “What am I supposed to do?” 

Steve chewed his lip. 

“The thing is,” he said, “I didn’t know I needed help. I didn’t see it. You…” _You saved my life._ “I want to start something,” he said. “I want to do what you do and spread awareness, I want to use the money I have to do something for people. I don’t need that money, I’ve never needed it. And…you’re better at spreading awareness than me.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to tell you how to spend your money?” 

“I want you to help me start something,” he answered. “I want to show other people how important it is to do what you did, instead of ignoring people or hating them or getting annoyed. You - I know, you wanted me to wear a helmet. And that’s what you’re about, that’s why Moms4Safety exists, but also, you reached out. You reached out, and I didn’t know I needed help until you did. And I _needed_ help.”

She looked him up and down, stuck her tongue in her cheek.

“You’re still off duty?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding. “It’s…not even a priority right now.”

“So you have plenty of free time?”

He nodded.

“Aside from the community stuff, yeah.”

“So if I needed a babysitter…?”

He could see her unsuccessfully fighting a smile, and smiled a little too.

“I’m sure I could manage a little pro-bono make-believe,” he said.

She nodded.

“Let me think about it,” she said, and he nodded too.

“Yeah,” he said, “absolutely, here,” he took out his card, “this is my number. Send me a text first with your name and I’ll verify it, it’s…weird security tech but. Yeah.”

She nodded.

“Okay, Captain America,” she said, and he smiled.

“Ma’am,” he said, and then he turned away and walked down the hallway.

“Hey!” she called after him, and he turned back and looked at her. “You look better.”

He smiled a little.

“I’ll get there,” he said. “Thank you.”

***

“So you guys just…built the charity out of the Ad campaign?” Ellen said, and Steve nodded, glanced at the image she had on the screen - the billboard of him in Times Square and the public appeal they’d made.

“That’s right,” he said. 

“You got a lot of backlash for it,” she said.

“All the best things do, right?” he answered, smiling as he pointed at her, and the studio audience seemed to like it. “I know we did. But, honestly, I’d like to see ‘em call _me_ a snowflake, considerin’ I was fightin’ wars before they were born.”

The studio audience liked that even more.

***

“I’m going recommend that you be cleared for duty,” Amrit said, “unless you can think of any reason not to?”

Steve smiled a little, cocked his head and thought about it.

“I…” he said, and Amrit let him sit in silence for a few minutes.

“You can say anything to me,” he said, “and it will not leave the room.”

“I don’t think,” he said slowly, “that I want to be behind a gun just yet.”

Amrit nodded.

“Then I’ll hold it off for a while,” he said. “We’ll talk about it when you’re ready.”


	5. Chapter 5

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Helping_Hands_First_Conglomerate

Helping Hands First Conglomerate

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

  
  
Main Page  
Contents  
Featured content  
Current events  
Random Article  
Donate to Wikipedia  
Wikipedia Store  
  
Interaction  
Help  
About Wikipedia  
Community portal  
Recent changes  
Contact page  
  
Tools  
What links here  
Related changes  
Upload file  
Special pages  
Permanent link  
Page information  
Vicklodata item  
Cite this page  
  
Print/Export  
Create a book  
Download a PDF  
Printable version  
  
  
Languages  
Français  
Español  
Deutsch  
……..Add Links  
|  The **Helping Hands First Conglomerate** is a Non Profit Organization founded by Marcia Hernandez, Cmdr. Steven G. Rogers (former Captain America) and SRA. Samuel T. Wilson (Captain America, formerly the Falcon), based on an advertising campaign of the same name, from the summer of 2016. The advertisements for the **“Helping Hands First”** campaign specialized in discussing the behavior of the general populace through simple, honest advertisements, centering on overcoming 'Big City Stereotypes[1]' to reach out to those in need, and ‘offering help before judgment[2].’  
  
|  **Contents** [Hide]  
1 Location  
2 Aims  
3 Activity  
4 Origins  
….4.1 Rogers’ Nervous Breakdown and Public Apology  
….4.2 Charges and Sentencing  
5 Original Advertising Campaign  
6 Conglomerate Formation  
7 Additional Work  
8 Governance  
9 Associated Bodies  
  
---  
  
  
**Location** [edit] The **Helping Hands First Conglomerate's** headquarters are in Stark Tower, 200 Pk Ave, Manhattan, New York, 10017.  
  
  
**Aims** [edit] The **Helping Hands First Conglomerate** aims to[3]: 

  * Protect the vunlerable
  * Provide safety and assistance for troubled members of society
  * Educate the public on important social issues relating to mental and physical wellbeing

  
  
  
**Activity** [edit] The Helping Hands First Conglomerate represents the views of its members to legal and governmental bodies. It carries out research into, and analysis of, public opinion, public understanding, and the fluctuating statistics of mental and physical wellbeing among the citizens of the United States. It campaigns on issues affecting surrounding mental, physical, emotional and spiritual wellbeing, such as providing safe places in which religions may be practiced, offering alternative means for treatment to those without health insurance, and spreading information regarding how to respond to an individual requiring emergency care. Many well-established organizations are now involved with the HHFC, including but not limited to The United States Department of Veterans Affairs, Samaritans, and HELP USA.  
  
  
**Origins** [edit] A confrontation between Moms4Safety member Marcia Hernandez, and Steven G. Rogers, on the subject of his apparent disregard for Washington, D.C. road safety laws[4] late in 2015, prompted a personal re-evaluation of his motivations for flouting helmet regulations. Rogers admitted to the violations, paid the appropriate fines to the City of Washington D.C, and made a public apology which was aired both online and on television[5].  
  
The following year, in 2016, he recruited Hernandez and SRA. Samuel T. Wilson to assist in a mental-health awareness campaign focused at first on the cities of New York and Washington D.C.[6], under the title 'Helping Hands First,' made after a second public announcement detailing his motivations, implying - which he later confirmed - that he had battled suicidal tendencies[7][8].  
  
**Rogers’ Nervous Breakdown** [edit]  
  
On December 14th 2015, then Captain America, Steven G. Rogers, was confronted outside a Safeway supermarket by Moms4Safety member Marcia Hernandez, who highlighted his flouting of Washington, D.C. helmet laws as reckless and illegal. Hernandez initially appealed to Rogers’ sense of empathy, citing her children’s idolization of his public persona as her reason for confronting him, but Rogers ‘regretfully, callously dismissed her accusations at the time[9].’  
  
Though initially he refused to acknowledge her arguments, Rogers ‘had an epiphany about it later[10]’ following a telephone conversation with SRA Samuel T. Wilson, culminating in his deviating from his usual running route as he suffered a panic attack by the Abraham Lincoln Memorial on the evening of December 15th 2015, and a full nervous breakdown shortly thereafter.  
  
SRA Samuel T. Wilson, a counselor at the Washington, D.C. VA Medical Center, monitored Captain Rogers overnight until he could be transported to the VA Medical Center the following 

  
**The Helping Hands First Conglomerate**  
  
| **Founded** | 2016  
---|---  
**Founders ****** ** **  
  
.**** |  Marcia Hernandez,  
Steven G. Rogers,  
Samuel T. Wilson  
**Type** | Non Profit  
**Headquarters**  
  
. |  200 Park Avenue,  
Manhattan,  
New York, 10017  
**Coordinates**  
. |  40°45′12″N   
73°58′36″W   
  
**Region Served** | Nationwide  
**Membership** **  
  
  
  
  
.** |  Veterans Affairs,  
Samaritans,  
Coalition of the  
Homeless, New   
York State Office of  
Mental Health,  
HELP USA  
**CEO** |  Virginia Potts  
**Main Organ** |  Board of Directors  
**Website** |  http://www.HHFC.org  
  
  
  


The Captain America billboard  
  


The Captain America billboard   
displayed in downtown Manhattan  
  


Take Notice Poster 1 – Don't Jump  
  


Take Notice Poster 2 – Helping Hands First  
  


Take Notice Poster 3 – This is a Sign  
Printableversion2  
| morning, to be evaluated for treatment. Rogers later confirmed this monitoring was ‘essentially suicide watch, although [he] was probably safer at that point in time than at any time previously, because [he] suddenly realized what [he had] been trying to allow to happen[11].’  
  
Rogers engaged in an intensive counseling program, and cites the VA as ‘instrumental in his ongoing recovery[12].’  
  
Following the admission of a requirement for treatment, Rogers appeared on regional television to apologize for his actions and withdraw from duty, informing the public that he would be pleading guilty to charges of flouting Washington, D.C helmet laws, in order to pay his fines and complete community service. He also, at this juncture, made a public apology to Marcia Hernandez and her children, and thanked the members of the public and the members of the VA who had assisted him during the first few days following his nervous breakdown[13].  
  
**Charges and Sentencing** [edit]  
  
On January 9th 2016, shortly after requesting that his attorney procure the incriminating evidence from Moms4Safety to be forwarded to the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Police Department, Rogers pled guilty to twelve counts of flouting District of Colombia helmet laws, resulting in a $300 fine which he paid immediately. In a move the overseeing body labeled ‘unusual[14],’ Rogers also requested Community Service, stating that ‘because of [his] backpay [he] wouldn’t even feel a fine like that,[15]’ and that such a resolution subsequently ‘ain’t fair, considering[16].’  
  
Rogers was given 200 hours of community service, despite asking for a longer term, during which he recorded PSAs[17], attended and then taught road safety classes[18], and gathered trash from local parks with Community Service groups[19]. Rogers subsequently became more involved with his local communities beyond the terms of his sentence[20].  
  
  
**Original Advertising Campaign** [edit] The advertising campaign for which the conglomerate was named consisted of radio, television and billboard advertisements to target individual groups, such as potential volunteers to the project[21], and those suffering from various issues and ailments[22]. Television and radio commercials put forward a compassionate plea to offer a helping hand to those in need, using the slogan, “stop asking why they're in trouble, start asking how you can help. Offer helping hands first.[23]” Posters were placed in strategic areas and addressed individuals with messages that aimed to comfort sufferers directly, using language 'intended to push through the fog of isolation[24].' A notable addition to the campaign was the 'DON'T JUMP' poster, posted to uprights, crossbeams, and over-barrier sections of bridges surrounding Manhattan[25], and at other popular suicide spots in the cities of New York and Washington, D.C. While criticized for its simplicity[26] at the time of issuing, several people have since come forward to thank the HHFC for their presence[27].  
  
The most viewed advertisement, however, was the addition of Rogers' personal pleas to the advertising campaign[28]. Following the implication of suicidal tendencies, the campaign released an advertisement in response to critics, in keeping with the simplistic theme, featuring Rogers out of uniform and looking directly into camera, pictured with the words “I didn't know I needed help until somebody reached out. Their help was vital. Yours could be, too.”[29] This came to be known as the Captain America billboard [citation needed] and was one of the most famous of the images in the campaign, paired alongside a video advertisement from which the sparse visuals and the slogan were lifted. It was written, and read, by Rogers himself:  
  
……..This is a public service announcement. Suicide is the 12th leading cause of death in the State of New York. On average,   
……..someone dies every five hours.   
  
……..If someone you know has become withdrawn and depressed, or reckless and distant, if you're concerned for the life of   
……..a family member, friend, coworker or stranger, the following services are available to you.  
  
……..Take a screenshot on your phone, photograph your television set, look this PSA up online and be aware of these   
……..numbers. Look for our information posters on the streets – they're bright blue, you can't miss 'em.   
  
……..If you, or someone you know, is in need of help, we advocate providing help before asking questions. Why or where or  
……..how doesn't matter – if someone's in trouble, please, offer helping hands first.   
  
……..I didn't know I needed help until someone reached out. Their help was vital. Yours could be, too. Thank you[30].   
  
The PSA ran for three months during primetime, and the Conglomerate continues to produce and post information in public places regarding emergency contact numbers for various services.  
  
  
**Conglomerate Formation** [edit] The Helping Hands First Conglomerate was registered in 2016, in order to bring various voluntary and service bodies together, and into a closer, more active relationship with Governmental and State-related departments for mental and physical wellbeing. Its foundation was made possible through the contributions of several participating donors, most notably a donation from Stark Industries[31], and the personal finances of Steven G. Rogers[citation needed], alongside the cooperation of the The United States Department of Veterans Affairs, who had played a large part in Rogers’ initial recovery.  
  
It is also rumored that the hands used for reference during the creation of the Conglomerate’s corporate branding is based on an image of two hands, belonging to Hernandez and Rogers, with Rogers’ hand reaching upward for assistance. This remains unsubstantiated.[citation needed]  
  
  
**Additional Work** [edit] The HHFC, while initially a conglomerate to aid in the spreading of knowledge and offering of help with regards to wellbeing, has, since its conception, been involved with many other advertising and educational campaigns, including: 

  * The maintenance and erection of standing and new homeless shelters respectively[32][33]
  * Being a ‘loud voice’ on the subject of employing more paid professional therapists at the VA[34]
  * Volunteer drives for itself[35] and sister organizations[36][37]
  * Fundraising for various concerns regarding mental[38], physical[39] and spiritual wellbeing[40]
  * Advocation for tighter security surrounding religious and medical buildings in the Washington, D.C.[41] and New York areas[42]
  * Information campaigns for bodily autonomy[43], vaccinatory inclusivity[44], and symptom recognition[45]
  * Employment opportunities[46]

  
The Conglomerate continues to be a strong contributer to action in cases of civil rights and bodily autonomy, as well as freedom of speech[47] and non-discriminatory safehouses[48].  
  
  
**Governance** [edit] The HHFC’s President is Virginia Potts[49], Marcia Hernandez is The HHFC’s Chair[50]. The Chief Executives are SRA Samuel T. Wilson and Cmdr. Steven G. Rogers [51]  
  
  
**Associated Bodies** [edit] Bodies which are now associated with The HHFC are: 

  * Veterans Affairs
  * Samaritans
  * Coalition of the Homeless
  * New York State Office of Mental Health
  * HELP USA
  
  
**Notes**  


|    
1\. ^“Small People in Big Cities” Cady Armoire, NY Times. August 3rd 2016, retrieved December 21st 2016.  
2\. ^“Anderson Cooper interview with Steve Rogers” CNN. September 17th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
3\. ^ “Mission Statement” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
4\. ^ https://mpdc.dc.gov _District of Columbia Municipal Regulation 2215.3,“[n]o person shall operate or ride upon a motorcycle unless wearing a protective helmet in the manner for which the helmet was designed and of a type approved by the director. At a minimum, the helmet must meet The American National Standards Institute (ANSI) Specifications for Protective Headgear for Vehicle Users, Standard Z90-.1-1966.”_  
5\. ^ https://www.nbcwashington.com/ January 5th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
6\. ^ “Where We Started” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
7\. ^ https://www.nbcwashington.com/ February 9th 2016, retrieved December 20th 2016.  
8\. ^ www.youtube.com/channel/UCMtFAi84ehTSYSE9XoHefig The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, CBS Television Studios, November 7th 2016, retrieved December 21st 2016.  
9\. ^ https://www.nbcwashington.com/ January 5th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
10\. ^ https://www.warnerbros.com/tv/ellen-degeneres-show Retrieved June 22nd 2017.  
11\. ^ www.youtube.com/channel/UCMtFAi84ehTSYSE9XoHefig The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, CBS Television Studios, November 7th 2016, retrieved December 21st 2016.  
12\. ^ https://www.washingtonpost.com December 16th 2015, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
13\. ^ https://www.nbcwashington.com/ January 5th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
14\. ^ https://www.dccourts.gov/services/cases-online January 10th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
15\. ^ https://www.dccourts.gov/services/cases-online Washington, D.C. v Rogers, Captain Steven G. January 10th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
16\. ^ https://www.dccourts.gov/services/cases-online Washington, D.C. v Rogers, Captain Steven G. January 10th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
17\. ^ https://www.americanboard.org/CptAm-PSA/watch/hjkdY2sfMay 12th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
18\. ^“Anderson Cooper interview with Steve Rogers” CNN. September 17th 2016, retrieved December 22nd 2016.  
19\. ^ https://www.nbcwashington.com/ February 6th 2016, retrieved December 21st 2016.  
20\. ^ https://www.juniorcyclists.com/Safety June 27th, retrieved December 21st 2016.  
21\. ^ “Volunteer” HHFC. Archived from the original, June 3rd 2018.  
22\. ^ “Our Demographic” HHFC. Archived from the original, Dec 23rd 2017.  
23\. ^ “Where We Started” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
|    
24\. ^“Small People in Big Cities” Cady Armoire, NY Times. August 3rd 2016, retrieved December 21st 2016.  
25.^ “Take Notice Posters - Printables” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
26\. ^ https://www.foxnews.com/us/manhattan-mental-health-appeal-farce March 11th 2016, retrieved October 29th 2017.  
27\. ^ “Responses” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
28\. ^ “Steve Rogers’ Appeal” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
29\. ^ “Steve Rogers’ Appeal” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
30\. ^ “Steve Rogers’ Appeal” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
31\. ^ “Where We Started” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
32.^ “Cleaner Shelter Campaign” HHFC. Archived from the original, April 7th 2017.  
33\. ^ “At-Ease Appeal” HHFC. Archived from the original, July 22nd 2017.  
34.^ “Those Who Know Best - Petition” HHFC. Archived from the original, September 17th 2017.  
35\. ^ “Volunteer” HHFC. Archived from the original, June 3rd 2018.  
36\. ^ “How to Help Near Me” HHFC. Archived from the original, January 18th 2019.  
37\. ^ “VA Volunteering” HHFC. Archived from the original, September 17th 2017.  
38\. ^ “Mind - Mental Health Resources” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
39\. ^ “Body - Physical Health Resources” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
40\. ^ “Soul - Spiritual Health Resources” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
41\. ^ “Stand Together” HHFC. Archived from the original, April 25th 2019.  
42\. ^ “Stand Together NYC” HHFC. Archived from the original, June 21st 2019.  
43\. ^ “My Body My Choice” HHFC. Archived from the original, October 13th 2019.  
44\. ^ “Get Your Vaxx Straight - 2020 Vision” HHFC. Archived from the original, February 2nd 2020.  
45\. ^ “Do I Worry?” HHFC. Archived from the original, March 28th 2017.  
46\. ^ “Jobs” HHFC. Archived from the original, March 28th 2017.  
47\. ^ “One Voice” HHFC. Archived from the original, March 28th 2017.  
48\. ^ “The Dry Head Appeal” HHFC. Archived from the original, June 1st 2020.  
49\. ^ https://www.StarkIndustries.com Stark Industries. Archived from the original, April 30th 2010.  
50\. ^ “Who We Are” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
51\. ^ “Who We Are” HHFC. Archived from the original, December 15th 2016.  
  
---|---  
  
  
  
**Further Reading**  

    * Hernandez, M., (2019) With Hands Outstretched ISBN 0-1871-0149-3
    * Hargrave, S., (2023) Love in the Time of War ISBN 0-3255-7038-0
    * Fernandes, M., Rogers, S.G., (2026) Heads Up! ISBN 0-0704-1918-0  
  
**External Links**  

      * The Helping Hands First Conglomerate
      * Stark Industries
      * Veterans Affairs
      * Samaritans
      * Coalition of the Homeless
      * New York State Office of Mental Health
      * HELP USA
  
  
Categories: Charities Based In New York | Manhattan, New York | Organizations Based In The New York District of Manhattan | Organizations Established In 2016  
This page was last edited on 31 January 2026, at 15:42 (UTC)  
  
Text is available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License; additional terms may apply. By using this site, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy. Wikipedia® is a registered trademark of the Wikimedia Foundation, Inc., a non-profit organization.  
  
Privacy policy……About Wikipedia……Disclaimers……Contact Wikipedia……Developers……Cookie statement……Mobile view  
  





	6. Chapter 6

_New York, 15th December, 2026 - Present Day_

“On the back of that breakdown, some people who are very important to me helped create an organization that turned into the Conglomerate you support now,” Steve says.

He leans forward a little.

“This next part isn’t a story I tell often, because it’s not one I’m especially proud of, but Marcia Hernandez,” and he pauses again here, waves at Marcia in the crowd and waits for the camera to get a good shot of her as the logo fades from the screens to show live images from the men fliming, “hiya, Marcie, of ‘Moms4Safety,’ was the first person to get angry about it enough to make a noise I heard. Which is how we met.”

He goes back to addressing the room at large again, and James is amazed at the way Steve speaks, amazed by the way he seems to be speaking to the whole room on a one-to-one basis. 

“Marcia approached me while I was buying groceries on a Monday afternoon, because I had been frequently flouting DC helmet laws. The law states, ‘no person shall operate or ride upon a motorcycle unless wearing a protective helmet in the manner for which the helmet was designed and of a type approved by the director, set forth in the District of Colombia Municipal Regulation twenty-two-fifteen point three, and I did not wear a helmet.”

He pauses. Waits for this to sink in, for people to register it instead of smiling politely. 

“I had no _plans_ to wear a helmet. Marcia, as well as several other people, noticed this, but she was the first to find me and have the guts to tell me about it, and she did it by standing in front of me when I tried to leave the store with a bunch of paper bags in my arms, and demanding to know what the hell I thought I was doing.”

People, James notes, are beginning to become uncomfortable. One or two are shifting their weight from foot to foot. The smiles are slipping. One or two people are exchanging glances and James knows from his own experience that, the first time you hear this story, your first thought it how fucking ballsy someone’s gotta be to mouth off to Captain America.

“I was polite,” Steve continues. “I also left - it had been a difficult weekend in a difficult month of a very difficult year, and I was not in the mood.”

What Steve means is that there had been one hell of an unpleasant mission in a month when Steve had gone through a very difficult set of emotions according to his mental health, in a year when he’d moved to Washington D.C. in the hopes of finding a purpose and found confusion, a breakup, and isolation instead.

“Marcia wasn’t deterred. She followed me to my motorcycle, and asked me again while I stowed what I’d bought in the storage compartments of my motorcycle. She told me her kids looked up to me, asked me again where my helmet was. And, I’m summarizing of course, I told her, ‘I don’t need it. Teach your kids that.’ ”

 _Then_ there’s sound - breaths hissing inward, more of those soft sounds of surprise.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, because wow, that’s….pretty unpleasant, let alone for a man as polite as Steve. “But she said, ‘You don’t _want_ it, _menino_ , there’s a difference.’ And then, well...then she said, ‘maybe you ought to ask yourself why.’ ”

Steve leans back, looks around everyone again, chews his lip for a second.

“I don’t know if she said it to piss me off. I don’t know if it was a throwaway line, I don’t know if she knew what she was asking when she asked. Why didn’t I, indeed? And then a little voice said to me in the back of my mind, you know why. And I did. But I was so, I mean I was _so_ lucky that I had friends around me when ‘why should I wear a helmet?’ became ‘why don’t I wear a helmet?’ and when ‘Why don’t I want to wear something that will save my life?’ became ‘Why don’t I care if I live?’”

James’ eyes sting, his throat hurts. He feels his chest grow tight.

“I was angry. I was _afraid._ I was self destructing - I even got benched. Some of you may remember those headlines,” Steve says and, that’s right, James does. “But I was _so incredibly lucky_ to have people around me who cared when I finally realized I needed help, when I finally accepted the help people were trying to give. And I was so lucky that Marcia got angry enough to say something, lucky that she’s as intelligent and insightful a person as she is.”

Steve straightens then, shoulders back, the sadness melting out of his posture.

“I know that my personal relationships suffered terribly - some irreparably. But I was so sure that I could do what we’d always done in my time. What we’d been told to do. I was so, so sure that I was right,” he leans forward, puts his hand out flat in front of him, a representation of the solid ground he was sure he was walking on. “That I could ignore it. But when those assumptions turned into the questions I didn’t want to think about the answers to, I realized…

He puts both hands up, shakes his head.

“ I realized what we put in the original awareness campaign. I didn’t know I needed help until somebody reached out. Her help was vital. Yours is too.”

There is a long pause, during which the only sound is the hum of the aircon. 

He then, much to James’ amusement, puts his hands in his pockets. 

“At that time, I was stationed in Washington D.C.,” he says, “and Sam Wilson, a very good friend of mine,” he holds out a hand and Sam’s face appears on the screens, he gives the camera a thumbs-up, “suggested someone at the VA to me. Marcia, whose righteous anger struck a chord I should have listened for earlier, and Sam, whose support helped me get far enough out of bed to reach the help I needed, and the people at the VA who treated me like I belonged there until I could see for myself that I did - I’m pretty sure these things saved my life. At the very least, they saved my sanity.”

He nods at the crowd, takes one hand out of his pocket to point.

“But, and here’s where you come in, I’m lucky. I’m very lucky - many, many people like me are not, _still._ Many people don’t have access to the healthcare they need, to the therapy and medication that can help them, to the people who can talk them down,” and he takes his other hand out of his pocket. “You’ll remember that we put up blue awareness posters. Pretty simple stuff - don’t jump, don’t take the pills, don’t pick up the knife, pick up the phone. If you or someone you know needs help, call these toll-free numbers. Visit these anonymous sites.”

Steve smiles.

“And then, entirely justifying my belief in the goodness of humankind, you asked to help.”

He looks around. He even catches James’ eye and, though it takes him only a few seconds, James is pretty sure he just looked every single person in the eye.

“Seeing these posters, you, and people like you, tried to give us money, to sponsor us - we don’t need it, we’re funded by Stark Industries. But in all seriousness, _we_ don’t need the money that you provide. Printing posters is negligible. Manning volunteer lines is, as the name suggests, voluntary. But the other work?”

He takes another long look at the people gathered around the stage, shakes his head, smiles. He’s proud of them, James can see it in his expression.

Then he waves a hand.

“You’ve listened to me for long enough. Wikipedia will tell you that Marcia and Sam and I founded the Helping Hands First Conglomerate but, in truth, we all did. And I’d like to show you, on the screen behind me,” he turns and indicates the middle screen they’ve erected, “the buildings you’ve built, the services you’ve funded, and the people whose lives you’ve saved in the past ten years.”

He stands up straight, puts his shoulders back and smiles. It’s the photograph the papers will go with, and the closing of his speech is the few seconds of footage the news stations will run.

“Thank you,” Steve says, “for your contributions, your continued support, and for caring in the first place.”

There is applause as he steps down, but videos are playing on the screens, and everyone stops clapping fairly quickly to watch. James moves towards him then because, why not? What else is a PA there for if not to congratulate and discuss the next thing. 

Steve goes to Sam and Marcia, and then the three of them move over to the side of the room. Steve lights up when he sees James, there’s no other way to put it, and he’s reaching out for him, James can see the “hey, honey!” forming, and then he shutters just a little, the smile turns professional.

“Seems I make a better interrogator than a public speaker,” he says, voice low and little hard to hear over the audio of the videos on screen and, for a second, he’s not sure what Steve means. 

And then he’s pretty sure Steve means something along the lines of, _almost forgot how to roleplay this one,_ and James laughs, scribbles on the notebook.

 _You were wonderful ♥_

Then he hands the notebook to Steve.

“I’ve been speaking to a couple of people,” James says, and Steve looks down at the notebook.

The page is covered in little doodles, small comments about Steve’s suit and his hair, written as bullet points. _10/10 butt, well done, compliment later. totally gay for captain america,_ with captain america crossed out and replaced by _commander cutie. Next time serve tacos at this thing. Hey! Keep the suit on tonight!_

And various hearts and stars and a game of tic-tac-toe he played with Wanda. Oh, no wait, two games. Both draws.

Steve snorts as his eyes roam the ‘list,’ and he raises one eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, “looks like I can manage most of those, except next Wednesday, I think,” he holds his hand out for James’ pen, scribbles with it once he’s taken it, “I’m pretty sure I can reschedule, though, can you check these two dates? And move this one-” he draws a line “to next week.”

He gives the notebook back.

 _PALOOKA_ And then, not having had time to draw one himself, he’s drawn a line to one of James’ little hearts, circled it, and made an exclamation point next to it. 

“Think you can manage that?”

James takes a second.

“Yessir,” he says, and Steve claps him on the back.

“Good man,” he says. “You’re doin’ pretty well - we’ll run the contact information and the bankroll numbers later tonight and talk about this trial, okay? You gonna work for me, I want you on payroll fast as possible ‘fore somebody else gets you.”

James’ eyebrows go up.

“Uh,” he says. “Sure.”

Steve beams.

“Alright - I gotta make nice to a couple people, and then you can follow me around a while, see if there’s anything you can pick up, maybe learn a little like that, yeah?”

James smiles at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know you’re a great public speaker.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, and James feels like there’s nobody else in the room. “I have a pretty sweet support network.”

James really wants to kiss him. James might kiss him.

“Uh,” he says.

And then he’s sort of disappointed but also kind of pleased that the next voice he hears belongs to Tony Stark.

“Cap!” 

Steve’s smile drops off his face in surprise, but he rolls his eyes a moment later, snorts.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, reaching out to hug Tony briefly - Pepper Potts he kisses on the cheek. “How long’ve I been outta the flag?”

“How d’you know I wasn’t talkin’ to Wilson?” Stark says, eyebrow raised, turns just enough that he has to look over his shoulder at Steve as though he’s intended to talk to Sam all along.

Then he has to twist his head even further back to look at James, decides it too much of an effort, and turns to face him instead, arm still linked in Miss Potts’. She looks entirely unconcerned.

“You brought your-” Stark says, Tony Stark, Tony, James has been told to call him Tony, Jesus, and Steve says,

“PA,” with one hand out to press against Tony’s chest, and then he lowers his head, looks intensely at Tony. “My PA.”

Tony looks like he thinks the whole thing is overdramatic, but Tony Stark likes to show up to combat with heavy metal playing through hijacked speakers, so, well, at least he’s an authority on it.

“The PA,” Pepper says, and she looks at Steve, knowing smile on her face. “If you need any tips for boss-wrangling, I can give you a few.”

“Oh, he’s got it,” Steve says, “trust me.”

Pepper laughs. 

“Well if you need any assistance networking,” she says, glances at Steve - okay so she’s got it but she doesn’t know how serious they are about the PA thing.

“Actually,” James says, “Ma’am, it’s amazing to meet you, I am a huge fan, but actually his appointments are still being handled by previously assigned staff and systems. I’m here in more. Of a personal. Capacity.”

She lifts her head in a slow nod.

“Well everybody loves a good secretary fantasy. It’s like the babysitter,” Stark says, looks at Potts as she shifts. “Not the babysitter?”

She shakes her head.

“Good!” he says. “You know I never liked that one?”

“Aha?” she says, and then mouths _sorry_ as she turns him away and starts walking.

“You know, I didn’t get a kiss!” Tony says. “Cap’s picking favorites.”

Steve rolls his eyes again.

“Who?” he calls after Tony.

“Commander, I’m bereft!” he answers, and walks off into the crowd.

James blows out a long breath.

“That was Tony Stark and Pepper Potts,” he says. “That was Tony Stark, and Pepper Potts!”

“Yeah,” Steve chuckles, sets his hand against the small of James’ back. “Yeah, it was, you ready?”

James smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “You read the addendum to the tailoring query?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, low. “I’ll keep the suit on.”

~

He does.

James calls him Sir.

It’s _amazing._

**Author's Note:**

> The numbers in the blue Take Notice posters are real. The Samaritans are a good first port of call if you need to talk.
> 
> ‘A face like a broken clock’ is an idiom used in the part of England Amrit’s from, (as an alternative to ‘a face like thunder’) but it’s an older one, back from when the area was still using “thee” and “tha” [thou] (although some of the older folk still do use “thee” and “tha”).
> 
> Thanks Justaphage for confirming the fines pertaining to DC Helmet law! 
> 
> Steve and Sam were making knishes, which Steve and Bucky may once have enjoyed when they went to Coney Island.
> 
> If you’d like to see what kind of material James’ suit is made from, google image search ‘blue and pink dupioni silk’ and you’ll get a rough idea.
> 
> And, to answer this question in advance, yes, the timing of this is deliberate. Although this was written about eight months ago, the point stands - this is a universe where Cap 2 doesn't take place. Steve was never reunited with Bucky in 2014, and subsequently made it to 2015 before he had a doomed relationship, and a catastrophic breakdown. 
> 
> Also hello to all you people who read my endless notes! ♥
> 
> Here is [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) if you'd like to know the dates of the occurrences in this fic up to part 10, and here is a [a link to the next part of the timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/cb64da10fd7e3bf9ece90992c80a6c7f/tumblr_pnkd4q2uSH1s2056to1_500.png) from part 11 to 21.


End file.
